/^Ti^C 


POEMS  IN  PROSE 


BY 

IVAN  TOURGUENEFF 


BOSTON 

CUPPLES,   UPHAM   AND   COMPANY 
1883 


Copyright,  by 
CUPPLES,  UPHAM  AND  COMPANY, 


ELECTROTYPED. 

BOSTON   STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY, 
4  PEARL  STREET. 


TOURGUENEFF. 


To  his  keen,  melancholy  glance  lay  bare 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Russia,  —  fierce,  intense, 
Primeval  passion,  firing  soul  and  sense 

Of  serf  and.  noble,  —  Mumu's  sad,  dumb  care, — 

The  eager  young  men's  thoughts,  who  madly  dare 
To  think  and  die  for  thought's  sake,  —  the  immense 
Oppression  of  the  empire,  and  the  dense 

Child-minded  millions  whom  no  emperors  spare. 

This  has  he  seen  and  written  as  he  saw, 
And  in  that  barbarous,  ice-bound  land  revealed, 

A  century  in  twenty  years  unrolled, 
And  writ  in  words  of  fire  life's  changeless  law 
Of  human  rights,  eternal,  unrepealed, 
That  nations  on  their  knees  have  learned  of  old. 


202S958 


PREFACE. 


THIS  little  volume  contains  a  translation  of 
what  are  among  the  last  things  written  by 
Tourgueneff.  They  are  best  denned  by  the 
title  that  he  half  suggested  for  them, — 
Poems  in  Prose;  for,  while  their  form  is  that 
of  prose,  the  subjects,  the  treatment,  the 
imaginative  setting,  have  all  the  charm  and 
quality  of  poetry.  It  is  believed  that  the 
reader  will  find  enough  beauty,  pathos,  and 
vividness  in  these  pieces  to  pardon  the  in- 
evitable pallor  of  a  translation.  This  has  at 
least  been  made  with  the  utmost  respect  for 
the  work  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  our  con- 
temporaries. 

As  to  the  poems  themselves,  they  are  of 
very  different  kinds.  Some  are  like  studies 

5 


6  PREFACE. 

for  the  scenes  of  a  novel ;  others,  again,  like  a 
conversation,  are  purely  imaginative  sketches, 
while  yet  others,  it  is  safe  to  conjecture,  have 
an  autobiographic  interest.  All  bear  the  deep 
impressions  of  his  wonderful  genius.  Even 
the  slightest  of  them  will  repay  study ;  for, 
just  as  the  writer  in  natural  history  can  only 
acquire  a  full  comprehension  of  the  majesty 
of  nature  by  the  careful  investigation  of  what 
to  the  careless  seem  trifles,  so  human  nature 
is  only  to  be  known  by  the  careful  and  sym- 
pathetic observance  of  the  slightest  acts  and 
feelings.  The  reader  will  be  led  to  doubt 
some  of  the  current  statements  about  Tour- 
gueneff ;  one,  which  he  himself  is  said  have 
expressed,  is,  that  he  lacked  imagination.  If 
by  this  it  is  meant  that  he  could  never  satisfy 
himself  with  drawing  vague  types,  but  was 
always  compelled  to  keep  touch  with  truth 
that  might  be  verified  by  observation,  the 
statement  is  true.  But  this  is  very  far  from 


PREFACE.  7 

affirming  that  because  he  was  exact,  he  was 
not  imaginative.  One  might  as  well  say  that 
Darwin  was  not  a  great  philosopher,  and 
assign  as  a  reason  that  he  studied  earth- 
worms. 

Another  unwarrantable  statement  is,  that 
Tourgueneff  lacked  sympathy.  Are  we,  then, 
to  suppose  that  his  exposition  of  the  dangers 
of  serfdom  was  a  commercial  speculation,  — 
that  the  comprehension  of  the  weaknesses  of 
his  countrymen  was  cynicism  ?  Fortunately 
TourguenefFs  readers  do  not  need  to  have 
the  assertion  combated. 

As  to  this  little  book,  Tourgueneff  said : 
"  The  reader  must  not  skim  over  these  poems 
in  prose  one  after  the  other ;  that  would  prob- 
ably tire  him,  and  he  would  soon  cast  the 
book  aside.  But  let  him  read  each  one  sepa- 
rately,—  one  to-day,  another  to-morrow,  and 
then  perhaps  one  or  more  of  them  may  sink 
into  his  soul  and  bear  fruit." 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  VILLAGE n 

THE  OLD  WOMAN 15 

A  DIALOGUE 19 

THE  DOG 22 

MY  OPPONENT 23 

AN  AXIOM 25 

DOST  THOU  HEARKEN  TO  THE  WORDS  OF  THE  FOOL  .  26 

THE  BEGGAR 28 

A  CONTENTED  MAN 30 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  WORLD      ....  31 

MASCHA 35 

THE  BLOCKHEAD 38 

AN  ORIENTAL  LEGEND 41 

Two  QUATRAINS 45 

THE  SPARROW 50 

THE  LABORER  AND  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  WHITE  HAND  .  52 

THE  SKULL 54 

THE  LAST  MEETING 56 

THE  ROSE 58 

THE  VISIT 61 

NECESSITAS-VIS-LIBERTAS 63 

THE  ALMS 64 

THE  INSECT 67 

THE  CABBAGE-SOUP 69 

9 


I0  CONTENTS. 

THE  HAPPY  LAND 71 

WHO  is  THE  RICHER •  .  74 

THE  OLD  MAN 75 

THE  NEWSPAPER  CORRESPONDENT        ....  76 

Two  BROTHERS 77 

IN  MEMORY  OF  I.  P.  W So 

THE  EGOTIST 82 

THE  SUPREME  BEING'S  BANQUET         ....  85 

THE  NYMPHS 86 

THE  SPHINX 90 

THE  FRIEND  AND  THE  ENEMY 92 

CHRIST 94 

THE  STONE 96 

THE  DOVES 97 

TO-MORROW,  TO-MORROW  ! 100 

NATURE 101 

"  HANG  HIM  ! " 103 

WHAT  SHALL  I  THINK  ABOUT? 107 

"  How  LOVELY  AND  FRESH  THOSE  ROSES  WERE  ! "  .        .  108 

A  TRIP  BY  SEA in 

N.  N 114 

STOP! 115 

THE  MONK 116 

LET'S  KEEP  A  GOOD  HEART 117 

PRAYER  . 119 

THE  RUSSIAN  LANGUAGE  120 


POEMS    IN    PROSE. 


THE  VILLAGE. 

IT  is  the  last  day  of  July :  for  a  thousand 
versts  on  every  side  lies  Russia,  —  home. 

The  whole  sky  is  a  shadowless  blue ;  one 
little  cloud  only  floats  upon  it  and  melts 
away.  A  windless,  sultry  calm  ;  the  air  like 
warm  milk. 

The  larks  trill,  the  doves  coo,  the  swallows 
sweep  by  with  their  swift  and  noiseless  flight ; 
the  horses  neigh  and  crop  the  grass  ;  the  dogs 
stand  about,  gently  wagging  their  tails,  but 
not  barking. 

There  is  a  mingled  smell  of  smoke,  hay, 
tar,  and  leather. 

The  hemp  is  ripe,  and  gives  forth  its  pene- 
trating but  pleasant  odor. 


12  THE   VILLAGE. 

In  a  deep,  gently-sloping  ravine  grow  rows 
of  thick-topped,  weather-beaten  willows.  Be- 
low them  flows  a  brook ;  in  its  bed  the  stones 
quiver  beneath  the  rippling  surface  of  the 
water.  In  the  distance,  where  earth  and  sky 
join,  is  to  be  seen  the  blue  line  of  a  broad 
river. 

On  one  side  of  the  ravine  are  a  number  of 
neat  little  barns  and  storehouses,  their  doors 
all  carefully  closed  ;  on  the  other  side,  half 
a  dozen  peasants'  huts  built  of  fir  logs  and 
boards.  Every  roof  is  surmounted  by  a  bird- 
house  on  the  top  of  a  tall  pole  ;  on  the  gables 
are  tin  horses'  heads  with  stiff  manes.  The 
rough  panes  of  glass  shimmer  with  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow.  On  the  window-shut- 
ters are  vases  of  flowers  painted  in  a  very 
primitive  fashion.  Before  the  houses  stand 
heavy  benches,  with  here  and  there  a  cat 
curled  up  in  a  ball,  with  pointed,  transparent 
ears  ;  behind  the  high  threshold  is  the  cool, 
dark  interior. 

I  am  lying  on  a  horse-blanket  close  to  the 


THE   VILLAGE.  !3 

edge  of  the  ravine,  amid  scattered  heaps  of 
the  fragrant  new-mown  hay.  The  busy  peas- 
ants have  spread  the  hay  out  before  the 
houses,  that  it  may  dry  in  the  summer  sun ; 
then  it  goes  into  the  barn  ;  —  it  is  delightful 
to  sleep  upon. 

Curly-headed  children  peep  out  from  under 
heaps  of  hay ;  busy  hens  pick  about  after 
beetles  and  flies ;  a  young  dog  is  rolling  on 
the  grass. 

Brown-haired  lads  in  long,  white  blouses, 
belted  at  the  waist,  and  with  heavy  boots  on, 
are  leaning  against  a  cart  and  laughing  to- 
gether, and  chaffing  one  another. 

A  young,  round-faced  woman  looks  out  of 
the  window,  and  laughs  half  at  the  boys  and 
half  at  the  children  frolicking  in  the  hay. 

Another  young  woman  is  drawing  with 
her  stout  arms  a  great  dripping  bucket 
out  of  the  well.  The  bucket  sways  and 
trembles  on  the  rope  and  lets  fall  long, 
sparkling  drops. 

An  old  woman  is   standing  before   me  ; 


I4  THE   VILLAGE. 

she  has  on  a  new  checked  dress  and  new 
leather  shoes. 

Three  rows  of  large  glass  beads  encircle 
her  withered,  sunburnt  throat ;  her  gray  hair 
is  covered  with  a  red  and  yellow-striped 
kerchief,  which  hangs  low  over  her  dull 
eyes. 

But  the  old  eyes  smile  pleasantly,  the 
whole  of  her  wrinkled  face  smiles,  the  old 
creature  must  be  nearly  eighty  years  old. 
.  .  .  Yet  one  can  still  see  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful as  a  girl. 

The  brown  claw-like  fingers  of  her  right 
hand  hold  a  cup  which  is  full  of  cold  milk, 
fresh  from  the  cellar.  The  outside  of  the 
cup  is  covered  with  drops  of  moisture.  On 
the  palm  of  her  left  hand  she  reaches  out 
to  me  a  large  slice  of  fresh  black  bread,  — 
"  Eat,  and  may  it  do  you  good  !  " 

Suddenly  the  cock  crows  and  claps  his 
wings;  answered  soon  by  the  bleating  of  a 
calf  from  the  barn.  "I  call  that  cheeky," 
I  hear  my  coachman  say. 


THE  OLD    WOMAN.  j~ 

This  contentment,  this  rest  and  plenty  in 
a  free  Russian  village  !  Oh,  this  blessed 
quiet ! 

And  I  think  to  myself :  What  is  the  need 
of  a  cross  on  the  Church  of  Santa  Sophia  of 
Constantinople,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
that  we  city-people  think  so  much  of? 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


THE   OLD   WOMAN. 

I  WAS  walking  alone  through  a  broad 
field.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  heard 
behind  me  a  light,  cautious  footfall.  Some 
one  was  following  me. 

I  looked  round  —  I  saw  a  little,  bent  old 
woman  bundled  up  in  gray  rags.  Nothing 
but  the  face  —  a  yellow,  wrinkled,  sharp- 
nosed,  toothless  face  —  was  to  be  seen. 

I  stepped  up  to  her  .  .  .  she  stood  still. 

—  "  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you  want  ? 
Are  you  a  beggar  ?  Do  you  want  alms  ? " 


X6  THE  OLD   WOMAN. 

The  old  woman  did  not  answer.  I  bent 
down  to  her,  and  noticed  that  both  her  eyes 
were  covered  by  a  half-transparent,  white  film, 
such  as  some  birds  have  as  protection  against 
too  bright  a  light. 

But  on  this  old  woman's  eyes  the  film  was 
immovable ;  it  never  left  the  pupil  .  .  . 
whence  I  concluded  that  she  was  blind. 

—  "  Do  you  want   money  ?  "     I    repeated. 
"Why   do   you   follow   me?"      Still  the  old 
woman  answered   not,  but   stooped   a   little 
more. 

I  turned  and  went  on  my  way. 
And  again  I   heard  the  same  light,  even, 
creeping  step  behind  me. 

—  "There's  that  woman  again!"  thought 
I ;  —  "  what  does  she  want  of  me  ?  "     But  it 
at  once  occurred  to  me  that  probably  she  had 
got  lost  on  account  of  her  blindness,  and  was 
now  guiding  herself  by  her  hearing,   follow- 
ing my  steps  that  I  might  lead  her  to  an  in- 
habited neighborhood.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  that  is 
it!  ...  But  a  strange  unrest  took    posses- 


THE  OLD    WOMAN.  ^ 

sion  of  me.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  this 
old  woman  was  not  following  me,  but  was 
driving  me  where  she  wished  to  go,  as  if  she 
made  me  turn  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the 
left,  and  as  if  I  involuntarily  obeyed  her. 

Nevertheless  I  go  on  and  on  ...  until 
something  black  appears  in  my  path,  just  be- 
fore me ;  it  grows  larger,  it  is  a  hole.  "A 
grave  !  "  The  thought  flashed  through  my 
head.  Thither  was  she  driving  me. 

I  turn  short  about.  The  old  woman  is  again 
before  me,  —  but  no  longer  blind.  She  looks 
at  me  with  large,  evil,  threatening  eyes,  — 
the  eyes  of  a  bird  of  prey.  ...  I  lean  closer 
to  her  face,  to  her  eyes,  .  .  .  there  was  again 
that  dingy  skin,  there  was  again  that  dull, 
blind  look. 

"Ah  ! "  think  I,  "  this  old  woman  is  my  fate, 
—  fate,  which  no  man  may  escape." 

"No  escape?  Not  escape? — what  mad- 
ness !  One  should  at  least  try  ! "  and  I  start 
in  another  direction. 

I  hasten  .      .  but  the  soft  tread  rustles  be- 


!g  THE   OLD    WOMAN. 

hind  me,  near,  very  near  .  .  .  and  before  me 
is  again  the  dark  grave. 

I  turn  once  more,  —  and  again  comes  the 
same  rustling  behind  me,  the  same  dark  spot 
appears  before  me. 

As  I  turn  hither  and  thither  like  a  hunted 
hare,  ...  it  is  always  the  same,  always  the 
same. 

Stop,  think  I,  I  will  outwit  her.  I  will  stay 
here,  —  and  suddenly  I  sit  down  on  the 
ground. 

The  old  woman  is  standing  two  steps  be- 
hind me.  I  do  not  hear  her,  but  feel  that  she 
is  there. 

And  suddenly  I  see  :  that  dark  spot  that 
was  visible  in  the  distance  floats,  creeps  up 
towards  me ! 

God !  .  .  .  I  look  around.  .  .  .  The  old 
woman  looks  fixedly  at  me,  and  her  toothless 
mouth  is  distorted  with  a  smile.  .  .  . 

—  "  Thou  canst  not  escape  me  ! " 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


A  DIALOGUE. 

THE  Alpine  summits  —  a  complete  chain  of 
steep  precipices,  right  in  the  heart  of  the 
Alps.  Over  the  mountains  is  a  pale-green, 
clear,  silent  sky.  Hard,  biting  frost ;  firm, 
sparkling  snow;  dark,  weather-beaten,  ice- 
bound crags  rise  from  beneath  the  snow. 

Two  colossi,  two  giants,  rise  from  the  hori- 
zon on  either  side,  —  the  Jungfrau  and  the 
Finsteraarhorn. 

And  the  Jungfrau  asks  her  neighbor :  "  What 
is  the  news  ?  You  can  see  better ;  what  is 
going  on  down  there  ? " 

Thousands  of  years  pass  by — as  one  mo- 
ment. And  Finsteraarhorn  thunders  back 
the  answer:  "Impenetrable  clouds  veil  the 
earth  .  .  .  wait !  " 

Again,  thousands  of  years  pass  —  as  one 
moment. 


2O  A  DIALOGUE. 

—  "  Well,  what  now  ? "  asks  the  Jungfrau. 

— "  Now  !  see  :  everything  there  is  un- 
changed, confused,  and  petty.  Blue  water, 
dark  woods,  heaped  up  masses  of  gray  stone, 
with  those  little  insects  running  all  about, 
you  know,  —  the  two-legged  ones  which  have 
never  yet  ventured  to  intrude  upon  your 
summit  or  mine." 

—  "  Men  ? "  —  "  Yes,  men." 

Again,  thousands  of  years  pass  by  —  as  a 
moment. 

—  "  Well,  what  now  ?  "  asks  the  Jungfrau. 

—  "  It  seems  to  me  as  if  fewer  of  those  in- 
sects are  to  be  seen,"  thunders  Finsteraar- 
horn  ;  —  "it 's  getting  clearer  down  there,  — 
the  waters  narrower,  the  woods  thinner !  " 

Again,  thousands  of  years  pass  by  —  like 
one  moment. 

—  "  What  do  you  see  now  ? "  asks  the  Jung- 
frau. 

—  "  Round  about  us,  near  by,  it  seems  to 
have  got  clearer,"  answered  Finsteraarhorn  ; 
"  but  down  there,  in  the  distance,  in  the  val- 


A  DIALOGUE.  2I 

leys  there  are  still  some  spots,  and  something 
moving." 

—  "And  now?"  asks  the  Jungfrau,  after 
thousands  of  years  more  —  a  mere  moment. 

—  "  Now  all  is  well,"  answered  Finsteraar- 
horn  ;  —  "  clear  and  shining  everywhere  :  pure 
white   wherever  you   look.    .   .   .    Our   snow 
everywhere,  nothing  but  snow  and  ice.     All 
is  frozen.     All  is  calm  and  peaceful." 

— "  Yes,  now  it  is  well !  "  answers  the 
Jungfrau;  "but  we  have  talked  enough,  old 
friend.  Let  us  sleep  awhile." 

—  "  Yes,  it  is  time  we  did." 

They  sleep,  the  giant  mountains.  The 
clear  green  sky  too  sleeps  above  the  ever- 
silent  earth. 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


THE  DOG. 

THERE  are  two  of  us  in  the  room,  my  dog 
and  I.  Outside,  a  fearful  storm  is  raging. 

The  dog  is  sitting  in  front  of  me  and  gaz- 
ing straight  into  my  eyes.  I  too  am  looking 
into  his  eyes. 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  he  longed  to  say  some- 
thing to  me.  He  is  mute,  dumb,  has  no  un- 
derstanding of  himself,  —  but  I  understand 
him. 

I  understand  that  the  same  feeling  lives  in 
him  as  in  myself,  that  there  is  no  difference 
between  us.  We  are  alike  ;  in  each  of  us 
glows  and  burns  the  same  flickering  flame. 

Death  is  approaching,  —  a  single  blow  from 
his  cold,  mighty  wing  .  .  .  and  that  is  the 
end! 

Who  can  distinguish  then  the  special  flame 
that  glows  in  each  of  us  ? 

No !    it  was   not    man    and    animal    that 


MY   OPPONENT.  23 

were  looking  at  each  other.  It  was  two  pairs 
of  eyes  of  the  same  kind  which  were  fixed 
on  each  other ;  and  in  each  of  these  pairs 
of  eyes,  the  beast's  as  well  as  the  man's,  it  is 
the  same  life  appealing  to  the  other. 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


MY  OPPONENT. 

I  HAD  a  comrade  who  was  my  opponent, 
not,  to  be  sure,  in  our  studies,  work,  or  love  ; 
—  but  our  ways  of  looking  at  things  were 
wholly  inharmonious,  and  every  time  we  met 
an  endless  strife  was  kindled  between  us. 

We  disputed  about  everything,  —  art,  re- 
ligion, knowledge ;  about  life  on  this  earth 
and  life  after  death,  —  especially  the  latter. 

He  was  an  enthusiast  and  a  believer. 
Once  he  said  to  me :  "  You  make  fun  of 
everything ;  but  if  I  die  before  you  do  I  will 
come  back  from  the  other  world  and  appear 


2  4  MY   OPPONENT. 

to  you  .  .  .  then  we  shall  see  whether  you 
will  laugh." 

And  sure  enough  he  did  die  before  me 
while  he  was  yet  young ;  a  long  time  went 
by,  —  and  I  forgot  his  promise,  his  threat. 

One  night  I  was  lying  in  bed,  and  could 
not  sleep. 

The  chamber  was  neither  light  nor  quite 
dark ;  I  was  gazing  into  the  gray  half-light. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  oppo- 
nent stood  between  the  two  windows,  and 
gently,  sadly,  nodded  his  head. 

I  was  not  frightened,  nor  even  surprised 
.  .  .  but  raised  myself  slightly  on  my  arm, 
and  looked  at  the  strange  apparition. 

It  continued  nodding. 

—  "  Well,"  I  said  at  last,  "  do  you  come  in 
triumph  or  in  pity  ?  What  does  this  mean  ? 
A  warning  or  a  reproach  ?  Or  do  you  tell 
me  that  you  were  wrong,  or  that  we  both 
were  wrong  ?  What  do  you  feel  ?  —  the  pangs 
of  Hell?  — the  joys  of  Paradise?  Tell  me 
.  .  .  just  one  word  ! " 


AN  AXIOM.  25 

But  my  opponent  uttered  no  sound;   he 
only  nodded  sadly  and  submissively. 
I  laughed  aloud,  —  and  he  vanished. 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


AN  AXIOM. 

"  IF  you  wish  really  to  vex  and  injure  your 
opponent,"  said  an  old  diplomatist  to  me 
once,  "  just  accuse  him  of  the  fault,  the  vice 
of  which  you  yourself  are  guilty ;  —  pretend 
to  be  angry,  and  reproach  him  with  it  sharply. 

"  In  the  first  place,  you  thereby  convince 
others  that  you  are  innocent  of  this  fault. 

"In  the  second  place,  your  indignation 
may  even  be  genuine.  You  profit  through 
the  reproaches  of  your  own  conscience." 

"  If  you  are  a  renegade,  for  instance, 
accuse  your  opponent  of  want  of  sound  faith  ! 

"  If  you  are  a  snob,  find  fault  with  him  for 
snobbishness ;  accuse  him  of  being  a  cultured, 
socialist  snob. 


2 6  "DOST   THOU  HEARKEN 

"  One  might  even  say  he  was  an  anti-snob- 
snob  !  "  I  remarked. 

"  Yes,  you  might  indeed  !  "  acquiesced  the 
diplomatist. 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


"  DOST  THOU  HEARKEN  TO  THE  WORDS 
OF  THE  FOOL?"  — PUSHKIN. 

"  DOST  thou  hearken  to  the  words  of  the 
fool  ? "  You  have  ever  spoken  truly,  you, 
our  sublimest  singer  ;  and  this  time  also. 

"  The  words  of  the  fool  and  the  laughter  of 
the  many ! "  .  .  .  Who  does  not  know  them 
by  experience  ? 

All  this  one  can  and  should  bear;  and, 
if  he  be  strong  enough,  even  despise  it. 

There  are  blows  which  are  far  more  pain- 
ful ...  One  man  did  all  that  he  could ; 
he  worked  with  all  his  strength,  zealously 
and  honestly  .  .  .  And  yet  "  honorable  souls  " 


TO  THE  WORDS  OF  THE  FOOL?"     2j 

turn  from  him  with  horror  ;  "  honorable  peo- 
ple "  blush  at  the  mere  mention  of  his  name. 
"  Get  out  of  the  way  !  Be  off !  "  "  honor- 
able "  young  voices  call  to  him.  "  We  want 
neither  you  nor  your  works ;  you  defile  our 
dwelling  —  you  neither  know  nor  understand 
us  ...  You  are  our  enemy  ! " 

What  should  this  man  do  ?  ...  He  should 
continue  to  work,  he  should  make  no  attempt 
to  justify  himself.  He  should  never  expect 
to  be  judged  justly. 

The  peasants  at  first  cursed  the  foreigner 
who  brought  them  the  potato,  —  that  daily 
food  of  the  poor,  a  substitute  for  bread  .  .  . 
They  tore  the  precious  gifts  from  his  out- 
stretched hands,  threw  them  in  the  mud,  and 
stamped  on  them. 

Now  they  live  on  them,  and  do  not  know 
even  the  name  of  their  benefactor. 

No  matter !  What 's  in  a  name  ?  Although 
unknown,  he  has  saved  them  from  starvation. 

Let  us  only  make  sure  that  what  we  bring 
them  is  really  nutritious  food. 


2g  THE   BEGGAR. 

Bitter  is  unjust  reproof  from  the  mouths 
of  those  whom  we  love  .  .  .  Yet  even  this 
may  be  borne. 

"Strike  —  but  hear  me!"  said  the  Athe- 
nian to  the  Spartan. 

"  Strike,  but  grow  healthy  and  strong ! " 
we  must  say. 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


THE  BEGGAR. 

I  WAS  walking  in  the  street  ...  a  beggar 
stopped  me,  —  a  frail  old  man. 

His  inflamed,  tearful  eyes,  blue  lips,  rough 
rags,  disgusting  sores  .  .  .  oh,  how  horribly 
poverty  had  disfigured  the  unhappy  crea- 
ture ! 

He  stretched  out  to  me  his  red,  swollen, 
filthy  hand  ...  he  groaned  and  whimpered 
for  alms. 

I   felt   in   all    my  pockets  ...  no   purse, 


THE   BEGGAR.  2y 

watch,  or  handkerchief  did  I  find.  I  had 
left  them  all  at  home. 

The  beggar  waited  .  .  .  and  his  outstretched 
hand  twitched  and  trembled  slightly. 

Embarrassed  and  confused,  I  seized  his 
dirty  hand  and  pressed  it  ...  "Don't  be 
vexed  with  me,  brother ;  I  have  nothing 
with  me,  brother." 

The  beggar  raised  his  bloodshot  eyes  to 
mine  ;  his  blue  lips  smiled,  and  he  returned 
the  pressure  of  my  chilled  fingers. 

—  "  Never  mind,  brother,"  stammered  he ; 
"  thank  you  for  this  —  this,  too,  was  a  gift, 
brother." 

I  felt  that  I,  too,  had  received  a  gift  from 
my  brother. 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


A   CONTENTED   MAN. 

A  YOUNG  man  is  mincing  along  the  streets 
of  the  capital.  His  manner  is  contented, 
cheerful,  and  self-conscious ;  his  eyes  are 
sparkling,  his  lips  smiling,  and  his  pretty 
little  face  is  slightly  flushed.  He  looks  the 
picture  of  contented  self-satisfaction. 

What  has  happened  to  him  ?  Has  he  re- 
ceived a  legacy  ?  Has  he  come  into  a  title  ? 
Is  his  lady-love  waiting  for  him  ?  or  is  it 
merely  a  feeling  of  physical  comfort  and 
satisfaction,  the  result  of  a  good  breakfast, 
that  pervades  his  whole  body?  or  has  he, 
perhaps,  had  hung  about  his  neck  the  beauti- 
ful eight-cornered  cross  of  the  Order  of 
the  Polish  King,  Stanislaus.* 

No,  he  has  only  invented  and  carefully 
circulated  a  nice  bit  of  scandal  about  one  of 

*  A  Russian  order  of  moderate  importance. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF    THE    WORLD.        31 

his  acquaintances.  This  scandal  then  came 
back  to  him  through  some  one  else,  and  he 
has  believed  it  himself. 

Oh,  how  pleased  and  satisfied  is  this  amia- 
ble, promising  young  man  now  ! 

FEBRUARY,  1878. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  WORLD. 

A      DREAM. 

I  DREAM  that  I  am  in  a  peasant's  hut  in 
some  obscure  corner  of  Russia. 

The  room  is  large  and  low,  with  three 
windows,  whitewashed  walls,  and  very  little 
furniture.  In  front  of  the  house  stretches  a 
broad  plain  which  loses  itself  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, over  which  hangs  like  a  roof  a  monoto- 
nous gray  sky. 

I  am  not  alone ;  there  are  about  ten  men 
in  the  room,  very  simple,  plainly-dressed 
people  ;  they  move  silently,  as  it  were  glid- 


32         THE  DESTRUCTION  OP    THE    WORLD. 

ing  to  and  fro,  avoiding  each  other,  but  con- 
tinually casting  anxious  glances  at  one  an- 
other. 

None  of  them  know  how  they  came  there 
or  what  sort  of  people  the  others  are.  Anx- 
iety and  depression  are  to  be  read  on  every 
face ;  they  all  step  in  turn  to  the  windows,  and 
look  as  if  expecting  something. 

Then  they  turn  again  and  wander  restlessly 
up  and  down.  A  little  boy  who  is  among 
them  moans  from  time  to  time  in  a  thin,  mo- 
notonous voice :  «  Papa,  I  'm  afraid  !  "  This 
whimpering  fairly  makes  me  sick.  I  too 
am  beginning  to  be  afraid,— but  of  what? 
I  do  not  know;  I  merely  feel  that  some  ter- 
rible misfortune  is  approaching. 

The  little  boy  goes  on  whimpering.     Oh, 
if  we  could  only  get  away  from  here  !     How 
close  it  is,  how  sultry,  how  oppressive 
but  escape  is  impossible. 

The  sky  is  like  a  pall,  there  is  not  the 
slightest  breeze,  the  air  seems  dead. 

Suddenly  the  boy  calls  from  the  window 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OP   THE   WORLD.        33 

with  a  terrified  voice  :  "  Look,  look  !  the  earth 
has  fallen  away." 

What !  Fallen  away  ?  ...  It  is  a  fact ; 
there  had  been  a  plain  in  front  of  the  house ; 
now  it  stands  on  the  summit  of  an  enormous 
mountain !  The  horizon  has  fallen  down, 
sunk  away ;  and  close  to  the  house  yawns  a 
steep,  black,  gaping  abyss  ! 

We  all  press  round  the  window  .  .  .  our 
hearts  stand  still  with  fear.  "  Look  there  ! 
—  there,"  whispers  my  neighbor. 

Now  over  the  whole,  wide,  boundless  waste, 
suddenly  something  begins  to  move  as  if 
little  round  hills  were  rising  and  falling. 

The  ocean  !  —  we  all  thought  at  once.  It 
will  engulf  us.  But  how  can  that  be  ?  How 
can  it  rise  in  its  might  to  the  height  of  this 
lofty  summit  ? 

Meanwhile,  it  rises  ever  higher  and  higher. 
Now  there  are  not  merely  little  hills  visible 
here  and  there  in  the  distance  ...  A  single 
mighty,  monstrous  wave  sweeps  across  the 
whole  circle  of  the  horizon. 


24    THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  WORLD. 

It  is  flying  towards  us  !  Like  an  icy  whirl- 
wind, it  approaches,  circling  like  a  dark  abyss 
of  Hell.  Everything  about  begins  to  trem- 
ble ;  and  there,  in  that  hurrying  chaos,  a 
thousand-voiced,  brazen  clangor  crashes  and 
thunders  and  roars. 

Ah !  what  howling  and  groaning  !  It  is 
the  earth,  moaning  with  terror. 

Its  end  has  come !     Universal  destruction  ! 

The  little  boy  goes  on  whimpering  ...  I 
turn  to  cling  to  my  companions ;  but  sud- 
denly we  are  all  overwhelmed,  buried,  drowned, 
swept  away  by  that  pitch-black,  icy,  mon- 
strous wave. 

Darkness  —  eternal  darkness  ! 

Almost  breathless,  I  awake. 

MARCH,  1878. 


35 


MASCHA. 

MANY  years  ago,  when  I  was  living  in  St. 
Petersburg,  whenever  I  hired  a  droschky,  or 
sleigh,  I  used  to  talk  with  the  driver. 

I  liked  especially  to  chat  with  the  night- 
drivers,  —  with  those  poor  peasants  from  the 
suburbs,  who,  with  their  rackety,  yellow 
painted  sleighs  and  wretched  horses,  hope  to 
earn  enough  to  support  themselves,  and  pay 
their  obrok  to  their  masters. 

Once  I  was  riding  with  such  a  driver.  .  .  . 
He  was  a  young  man,  about  twenty  years  old, 
tall,  well-shaped,  a  powerfully  built  fellow 
with  blue  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  ;  brown  curls 
came  down  over  his  eyebrows  beneath  his 
knit  cap.  It  was  a  wonder  how  his  ragged 
coat  held  together  across  his  broad  shoulders. 

His  smooth,  handsome  face  looked  sad  and 
gloomy. 


36  MASCHA. 

I  began  to  talk  to  him.  Even  his  voice 
sounded  sad.  "  Why  are  you  not  more  cheer- 
ful, brother  ?  "  I  asked  him.  "  Is  anything 
the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  immediately. 

At  last,  he  broke  out  with :  "  Yes,  sir,  I 
have  a  sorrow,  —  such  a  sorrow  as  I  would  not 
wish  to  my  worst  enemy.  My  wife  is  dead." 

"  You  loved  her,  then  ? " 

The  fellow  did  not  turn  round,  but  merely 
nodded  his  head. 

"Yes,  sir,  —  I  did  love  her.  ...  It  was 
eight  years  ago  .  .  .  and  I  cannot  get  over 
it.  It  is  gnawing  my  very  heart  out  ...  all 
the  time.  And  why  should  she  have  died? 
She  was  young  and  strong.  But  the  cholera 
carried  her  off  in  a  day." 

"  She  was  a  good  wife  to  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  sir,  "  — the  poor  fellow  sighed  deeply, 
— "  we  were  so  fond  of  each  other !  She 
died  when  I  was  away.  I  heard  that  she 
was  already  buried,  and  I  hurried  home  to 
the  village.  When  I  got  there,  it  was  past 


MASCHA.  27 

midnight.  I  went  into  my  cottage,  stood  still 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  whispered 
softly,  '  Mascha,  oh,  Mascha ! '  .  .  .  but  only 
the  cricket  chirped.  Then  I  began  to  cry, 
sat  down  on  the  ground,  and  struck  the  earth 
with  my  hands.  *  Insatiable  maw,'  said  I, 
'  you  have  swallowed  her  .  .  .  swallow  me 
too!'"  .  .  .  "Oh,  Mascha!  — Mascha!"  .  .  . 
added  he  once  more  in  low  tones,  and  with- 
out dropping  the  reins,  wiped  a  tear  from  his 
eyes  with  his  gloved  fist,  shook  it  off,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  said  not  another  word. 

As  I  got  down,  I  paid  him  more  than  his 
fare.  He  pulled  off  his  cap  with  both  hands 
and  made  me  a  low  bow,  and  then  drove 
slowly  away  over  the  deserted,  snow-covered 
streets  through  the  gray  mists  of  January. 

APRIL,  1878. 


THE  BLOCKHEAD. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  blockhead. 

He  lived  for  a  long  time  happy  and  con- 
tented, until  at  last  it  came  to  his  ears  that 
he  was  considered  a  brainless  fool.  That 
stirred  him  up  and  worried  him.  He  consid- 
ered what  would  be  the  best  way  to  give  the 
lie  to  these  rumors.  Suddenly  an  idea  came 
into  his  dull  head,  and  he  immediately  carried 
it  out. 

An  acquaintance  met  him  in  the  street, 
and  praised  a  famous  painter. 

"  In  heaven's  name,"  exclaimed  the  block- 
head, "  don't  you  know  that  that  painter 
has  been  thrown  into  the  dust-heap  long  ago  ? 
You  must  have  known  that !  You  are  dread- 
fully behind  the  times." 

His  acquaintance  was  surprised,  but  at 
once  accepted  the  blockhead's  opinion. 


THE  BLOCKHEAD.  39 

"I  have  been  reading  such  a  delightful 
book  to-day ! "  said  some  one  else  to  him. 

"Mercy  on  us  !  "  cried  the  blockhead,  "are 
you  not  ashamed  of  yourself  ?  That  is  an  ab- 
solutely worthless  book,  —  there  is  but  one 
opinion  about  it.  Did  n't  you  know  that  ? 
What  an  old  fogey  you  are !  " 

And  this  person  was  overawed  too,  and 
agreed  with  the  blockhead. 

"  Waht  a  splendid  fellow  my  friend  A.  is  !  " 
said  a  third  acquaintance  to  the  blockhead ; 
"  a  really  fine  man  !  " 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  the  blockhead; 
"  A.  is  a  notorious  rascal !  He  has  cheated 
all  his  relatives.  Is  there  any  one  who 
does  n't  know  that  ?  How  behind  the  times 
you  are ! " 

His  interlocutor  was  put  down,  and  at  once 
came  over  to  the  blockhead's  opinion.  What- 
ever or  whoever  was  praised  in  his  presence, 
the  blockhead  had  always  the  same  answer 
ready,  and  always  added  reproachfully, — 
"And  do  you  still  go  by  the  authorities?" 


40  THE  BLOCKHEAD. 

"  A  disagreeable,  malicious  fellow  !  "  the 
blockhead  was  now  pronounced  by  common 
consent.  "  But  what  a  head  he  has  ! "  "  And 
what  a  tongue  ! "  added  others  ;  "  oh,  he 's  an 
able  fellow ! " 

The  end  of  it  was  that  the  editor  of  a  paper 
entrusted  the  critical  part  of  his  paper  to  the 
blockhead,  who  criticised  everything  and 
everybody  in  his  favorite  fashion,  with  his 
well-known  remarks.  And  now  he,  the  for- 
mer enemy  of  all  authorities,  has  become  an 
authority  himself,  and  young  people  respect 
him  greatly  and  tremble  before  him. 

How  can  they  help  it,  poor  fools  ? 


AN  ORIENTAL  LEGEND. 

WHO  in  Bagdad  does  not  know  great  Jaffar, 
the  sun  of  the  universe  ? 

Once,  many  years  ago,  when  Jaffar  was  a 
youth,  he  was  walking  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Bagdad. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  hoarse  cry,  some  one 
calling  for  help. 

Jaffar  was  distinguished  among  his  com- 
panions for  wise  judgment  and  lofty  under- 
standing, but  he  had  also  a  sympathetic  heart, 
and  could  depend  upon  his  strength. 

He  hastened  in  the  direction  of  the  call, 
and  saw  a  weak  old  man  crowded  against  the 
city  wall  by  two  highwaymen,  who  were  about 
to  rob  him. 

Jaffar  drew  his  sabre  and  attacked  the  ras- 
cals ;  one  he  killed  and  one  he  put  to  flight. 

The  old  man  whom  he  had  saved   fell  at 


42  AN  ORIENTAL  LEGEND. 

the  feet  of  his  deliverer,  kissed  the  hem  of 
his  garment,  and  exclaimed,  "Brave  youth! 
your  generosity  shall  not  go  unrewarded.  I 
appear  to  be  a  miserable  beggar  ;  but  appear- 
ances are  deceitful.  I  am  no  ordinary  man. 
Come  to-morrow  at  daybreak  to  the  market- 
place ;  I  will  wait  for  you  there  at  the  foun- 
tain, and  you  shall  be  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  my  words." 

Jaffar  considered  :  "  This  man  really  seems 
to  be  only  a  beggar ;  —  but  who  knows  ? 
Why  should  I  not  make  the  trial?"  and  he 
answered  and  said :  "  Well,  father,  I  will 
come ! " 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  and  went 
away. 

The  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  Jaffar  be- 
took him  to  the  market-place.  The  old  man 
was  already  waiting  for  him,  leaning  against 
the  marble  basin  of  the  fountain. 

He  took  Jaffar  silently  by  the  hand  and  led 
him  into  a  little  garden,  which  was  surrounded 
by  a  high  wall. 


AN  ORIENTAL  LEGEND.  43 

In  the  middle  of  this  garden  from  the  green- 
sward grew  a  peculiar  kind  of  tree. 

It  looked  like  a  cypress  ;  but  had  deep  blue 
leaves.  Three  apples  hung  from  the  stiff, 
erect  boughs,  —  one,  a  middling-sized  apple, 
was  oval  and  milk-white ;  another,  large, 
round,  and  bright-red ;  the  third,  small, 
wrinkled,  and  yellow. 

The  tree  rustled  softly,  although  no  breeze 
was  blowing.  It  tinkled  gently,  as  if  it  were 
made  of  glass  ;  and  it  seemed  to  be  conscious 
of  Jaffar's  approach. 

"Young  man!"  said  the  old  man,  "pluck 
one  of  these  apples,  and  know  that  if  you 
pluck  the  white  one  and  eat  it,  you  will  be- 
come wiser  than  all  other  men  ;  if  you  pluck 
the  red  one  and  eat  it,  you  will  become  as 
rich  as  the  Rothschilds  ;  but  if  you  pluck  the 
yellow  one  and  eat  it,  you  will  win  the  favor 
of  all  old  women.  Decide  without  delay ; 
in  one  hour,  the  fruit  will  wither  and  the  tree 
sink  into  the  depths  of  the  earth  ! " 

Jaffar    bowed    his    head  and  considered. 


44  AN  ORIENTAL  LEGEND. 

"  How  shall  I  decide  ? "  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. "  If  I  am  too  wise,  my  life  may  be  mis- 
erable. If  I  become  richer  than  everybody 
else,  that  may  excite  envy,  —  so  I  will  pluck 
and  eat  the  third  apple  !  " 

He  did  so,  and  the  old  man  laughed  with 
his  toothless  mouth,  and  said,  "  Oh,  wisest  of 
young  men !  You  have  chosen  rightly ! 
Why  should  you  want  the  white  apple  ?  You 
are  already  wiser  than  Solomon.  The  red 
apple  you  don't  need  either;  you  will  be- 
come rich  without  its  aid,  and  yet  excite  no 
one's  envy." 

"Now  tell  me,  venerable  old  man,"  said 
Jaffar,  trembling  with  joy,  "where  the  es- 
teemed mother  of  our  gracious  Caliph  lives." 

The  old  man  bowed  low  and  showed  the 
young  man  the  way  there. 

Who  in  Bagdad  does  not  know  the  sun  of 
the  universe,  —  the  great,  the  celebrated  Jaf- 
far? 

APRIL,  1878. 


45 


TWO   QUATRAINS. 

THERE  was  once  a  city,  the  inhabitants 
of  which  were  such  passionate  admirers  of 
poetry,  that  if  a  few  weeks  went  by  without 
bringing  to  light  new  and  fine  poems,  they 
regarded  such  poetic  unfruitfulness  as  a  pub- 
lic calamity. 

Then  they  would  put  on  their  worst  clothes, 
strew  their  heads  with  ashes,  and  assemble  in 
the  public  squares  to  lament,  shed  tears,  and 
bitterly  murmur  against  the  Muse  for  desert- 
ing them. 

On  one  such  day  of  mourning  there  ap- 
peared once  a  youthful  poet,  Junius,  among 
the  sorrowing  people  in  the  crowded  square. 

Quickly  he  mounted  the  tribune  and  signi- 
fied that  he  wished  to  recite  a  poem.  The 
lictors  waved  their  rods  and  cried  out  in 
commanding  tones,  "  Peace  !  Attention ! " 
and  the  eager  multitude  was  silent. 


46  TWO  QUATRAINS. 

"  Friends,  comrades  !  "  began  Junius,  with 
a  loud  but  uncertain  voice  — 

"Friends,  comrades,  since  true  poesy  you  love, 

And  bend  adoringly  to  own  its  might, 

Let  sadness  flee,  care  vanish  like  a  mist! 

Apollo  rises  —  conqueror  of  night !  " 

Junius  had  ended,  and  was  answered  on  all 
sides  by  hisses,  groans,  and  laughter. 

The  upturned  faces  of  the  multitude  glowed 
with  indignation ;  all  eyes  sparkled  with  an- 
ger; all  hands  were  raised  and  threatened 
him  with  clenched  fists. 

"Is  he  turning  us  to  ridicule?"  roared 
angry  voices.  "Tear  him  down  from  the 
tribune,  the  stupid  rhymester!  Down  with 
the  blockhead  !  Pelt  him  with  rotten  apples 
and  eggs,  the  fool!  Stone  him!  Stone 
him  ! " 

Junius  plunged  headlong  from  the  tribune  ; 
but  before  he  reached  his  house,  he  heard 
loud  applause,  bravas,  and  cries  of  admira- 
tion. 

Tormented  by  doubts,  Junius  returned  to 


TWO  QUATRAINS.  47 

the  public  square,  taking  pains  to  pass  un- 
noticed amid  the  crowd  —  for  "  fearful  it  is  to 
wake  the  angry  lion  !  " 

And  what  did  he  see  ? 

High  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  crowd,  on 
a  broad  golden  shield,  covered  with  a  purple 
mantle,  his  head  crowned  with  laurels,  stood 
his  rival,  the  youthful  poet  Julius  ;  and  the 
crowd  called  out,  "Honor  and  glory  to  the 
immortal  Julius  !  He  has  consoled  us  in  our 
woes,  in  our  great  sorrow  !  He  has  refreshed 
us  with  his  sublime  poetry,  which  is  sweeter 
than  honey,  more  fragrant  than  roses,  more 
musical  than  cymbals,  purer  than  the  blue  of 
the  heavens.  Raise  him  high  in  triumph, 
let  soft  clouds  of  incense  rise  about  his  in- 
spired head,  fan  him  with  palm-leaves,  strew 
before  him  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia! 
Honor  and  glory  to  the  divine  poet !  " 

Junius  approached  one  of  the  shouters : 
"Tell  me,  dear  fellow-citizen,  how  ran  the 
poem,  with  which  Julius  so  pleased  you.  I 
was  unfortunately  away  when  he  recited  it. 


48  TWO   QUATRAINS. 

Be  kind  enough,  I  beg  you,  to  repeat  it  to 
me,  if  you  remember  it !  " 

"How  could  I  forget  such  a  verse?"  was 
the  eager  answer.  "What  do  you  take  me 
for?  Hear  and  rejoice,  make  glad  with  all 
of  us.  The  verse  ran  thus  :  — 

"  '  Friends,  comrades,  since  you  love  true  poesy, 

And  reverently  adore  its  sacred  might, 
Let  care  and  sorrow  flee  before  the  dawn ! 

Phoebus  is  risen  —  gone  the  clouds  of  night! ' 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ? " 
"  But,  if  you  please,"  exclaimed  Junius, 
"  those  are  my  lines  !  Julius  was  among  the 
crowd  when  I  recited  them ;  he  heard  and 
repeated  them  with  a  few  trifling  changes, 
which  are  by  no  means  improvements  ! " 

"  Ah  !  now  I  recognize  you ;  you  are  Ju- 
nius ! "  answered  the  man,  with  a  frown. 
"You  must  be  either  envious  or  a  block- 
head. Come  to  your  senses,  wretched  man  ! 
How  nobly  Julius  puts  it,  — 

"  '  Phoebus  is  risen  —  gone  the  clouds  of  night ! ' 


TWO    QUATRAINS.  ^ 

"  Just  compare  your  stuff  with  that,  — 

"  '  Apollo  rises  —  conqueror  of  night ! ' " 

"Well,  is  not  that  the  same  thing?"  be- 
gan Jimius. 

"A  word  more,"  interrupted  the  citizen, 
"and  I  will  call  the  people  together,  and  they 
will  tear  you  limb  from  limb." 

Junius  prudently  held  his  peace.  An  old, 
gray-headed  man,  who  had  listened  to  the 
conversation,  stepped  up  to  the  unhappy 
poet,  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said : 

"Junius,  you  recited  your  lines  at  an  un- 
fortunate time.  Although  Julius  merely 
repeated  the  words  of  another,  he  chose  the 
right  moment  to  do  it  in ;  hence  his  success. 
Your  own  consciousness  of  merit  must  be 
your  reward." 

During  the  jubilee  which  celebrated  his  op- 
ponent's success,  the  poor,  neglected  Junius 
had  nothing  but  his  own  consciousness  of 
merit  to  console  himself  with,  and,  sooth  to 
say,  it  consoled  him  ill  enough. 


50  THE   SPARROW. 

Clad  in  purple  and  crowned  with  laurel, 
refulgent  as  the  golden,  all-conquering  sun, 
proud,  sublime,  majestic,  — like  a  king  going 
to  his  coronation, — Julius  strode  about,  sur- 
rounded by  clouds  of  incense  ;  palm-branches 
waved  at  his  approach,  and  the  reverence  for 
him  in  the  hearts  of  his  delighted  fellow- 
citizens  knew  no  bounds. 

APRIL,  1878. 


THE  SPARROW. 

I  WALKED  up  my  garden  path  as  I  was 
coming  home  from  shooting.  My  dog  ran  on 
before  me. 

Suddenly  he  went  slower,  and  crept  care- 
fully forward  as  if  he  scented  game. 

I  looked  along  the  path  and  perceived  a 
young  sparrow,  with  its  downy  head  and  yel- 
low bill.  It  had  fallen  from  a  nest  (the  wind 
was  blowing  hard  through  the  young  birch 


THE   SPARROW.  5! 

trees  beside  the  path),  and  was  sprawling 
motionless,  helpless  on  the  ground,  with  its 
little  wings  outspread. 

My  dog  crept  softly  up  to  it,  when  suddenly 
an  old,  black-breasted  sparrow  threw  himself 
down  from  a  neighboring  tree,  and  let  him- 
self fall  like  a  stone  directly  under  the  dog's 
nose,  and,  with  ruffled  feathers,  sprang  with 
a  terrified  twitter  several  times  against  his 
open,  threatening  mouth. 

He  had  flown  down  to  protect  his  young 
at  the  sacrifice  of  himself.  His  little  body 
trembled  all  over,  his  cry  was  hoarse,  he  was 
frightened  to  death  ;  but  he  sacrificed  him- 
self. 

My  dog  must  have  seemed  to  him  a  gigan- 
tic monster,  but  for  all  that  he  could  not  stay 
on  his  high,  safe  branch.  A  power  stronger 
than  himself  drove  him  down. 

My  dog  stopped  and  drew  back ;  it  seemed 
as  if  he,  too,  respected  this  power. 

I  hastened  to  call  back  the  amazed  dog,  and 
reverently  withdrew.  Yes,  —  don't  laugh  !  I 


r2  THE  LABORER  AND   THE 

felt  a  reverence  for  this  little  hero  of  a  bird, 
with  his  paternal  love. 

Love,  thought  I,  is  mightier  than  death 
and  the  fear  of  death ;  love  alone  inspires  and 
is  the  life  of  all. 

APRIL,  1878. 


THE    LABORER   AND    THE   MAN  WITH 
THE  WHITE  HAND. 

A     DIALOGUE. 

LABORER.  —  What  brings  you  here  ?  What 
do  you  want  ?  You  don't  belong  to  us  !  Go 
away. 

THE  WHITE-HANDED  MAN.  —  I  belong  to 
you,  brothers. 

LABORER.  —  What  an  idea !  You  one  of 
us?  A  likely  story!  Look  at  my  hands. 
Don't  you  see  how  dirty  they  are  ?  They 
smell  of  earth,  of  the  barn-yard ;  —  but  look 
how  white  yours  are ;  what  do  they  smell  of  ? 


MAN  WITH   THE  WHITE  HANDS.  53 

THE  WHITE-HANDED  MAN.  —  Here  —  smell ! 

LABORER.  —  What  the  devil  is  that  ?  They 
seem  to  smell  of  iron  ! 

THE  WHITE-HANDED  MAN.  —  True.  I  wore 
chains  on  them  for  six  years. 

LABORER.  —  Why  ? 

THE  WHITE-HANDED  MAN.  —  Because  I 
wrote  in  your  cause ;  because  I  wished  to  set 
you  poor,  ignorant  men  free  ;  because  I  strove 
and  rebelled  against  your  oppressors  .  .  .  that 
was  why  they  put  me  in  prison. 

LABORER.  —  How  ?  You  've  been  in  pris- 
on ?  Who  told  you  to  rebel  ? 

TWO   YEARS   LATER. 

ANOTHER  LABORER.  —  TO  THE  FIRST.  —  I 
say,  Peter,  don't  you  know  that  fellow  with 
white  hands,  who  came  here  summer  before 
last  ?  He  talked  with  you. 

FIRST  LABORER.  —  Yes,  —  well,  what  about 
him? 

SECOND  LABORER.  —  Only  think ;  he  's  go- 


54  THE  SKULL. 

ing  to  be  hung  to-day !  He  has  been  con- 
demned. 

FIRST  LABORER.  —  Has  he  gone  on  rebel- 
ling ? 

SECOND  LABORER.  —  Yes,  just  as  before ! 

FIRST  LABORER.  —  Well !  .  .  .  I  '11  tell  you 
what,  brother  Dimitry,  don't  you  suppose  we 
could  get  a  bit  of  the  rope  he 's  hanged  with  ? 
They  say  that  such  a  bit  of  rope  brings  good 
luck  to  a  house. 

SECOND  LABORER.  —  That  is  true,  brother 
Peter.  We  must  try. 


THE   SKULL. 

A  MAGNIFICENT,  brilliantly-lighted  room, 
thronged  with  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

All  are  talking  eagerly.  The  conversation 
turns  on  a  celebrated  singer.  They  pronounce 
her  divine,  immortal.  Oh,  how  charming  her 
last  trill  was  yesterday ! 


THE  SKULL.  ^ 

Suddenly,  as  if  at  the  touch  of  a  magician's 
wand,  the  flesh  and  skin  vanished  from  all  the 
faces  and  heads,  and  in  a  moment  appeared 
the  ghastly  hue  of  the  skulls,  the  naked  gray 
jaw  and  cheek-bones. 

With  horror  I  watched  the  movement  of 
those  jaws  and  cheek-bones ;  I  saw  how  the 
round,  bony  skulls  shone  in  the  lamp  and  can 
die-light,  how  the  smaller  balls  of  the  expres- 
sionless eyes  rolled  about  inside  the  larger 
balls  of  the  skulls. 

I  dared  not  touch  my  own  face  or  look  at 
myself  in  the  glass. 

The  skulls,  however,  kept  on  moving  as  be- 
fore ;  the  same  gabbling  was  produced  by  the 
red  flaps  through  the  lifeless  jaws  ;  these  nim- 
ble tongues  still  chattered  about  the  astonish- 
ing last  trill  of  the  unapproachable,  the  im- 
mortal, yes,  the  immortal  singer. 

APRIL,  1878. 


THE  LAST  MEETING. 

ONCE  we  were  near,  intimate  friends  .  .  . 
but  the  evil  moment  came,  and  we  parted 
enemies. 

Many  years  passed  by  ...  and  I  came  to 
the  city  in  which  he  lived,  and  heard  that  he 
was  hopelessly  ill  and  wished  to  see  me. 

I  went  to  see  him  and  entered  his  chamber 
.  .  .  our  eyes  met. 

I  scarcely  knew  him.  Heavens !  how  ill- 
ness had  changed  him  ! 

Yellow,  wizened,  not  a  hair  on  his  head, 
with  a  thin,  gray  beard,  there  he  sat  scantily 
covered. 

He  could  not  bear  the  slightest  pressure  of 
any  article  of  clothing.  He  hastily  held  out 
his  horribly  thin,  skinny  hand,  and  whispered 
with  effort  a  few  unintelligible  words.  Were 
they  a  welcome  or  a  reproach  ?  —  who  can 


THE  LAST  MEETING.  57 

tell  ?  His  emaciated  breast  panted  heavily, 
and  from  his  inflamed  eyes  —  the  pupils  were 
contracted  with  pain  —  dropped  a  few  slow 
tears. 

My  heart  bled.  ...  I  sat  down  near  him, 
and,  involuntarily  letting  my  eyes  fall  from 
this  terrible  picture  of  suffering,  I  held  out 
my  hand  to  him. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  could  not  be 
his  hand  which  clasped  mine. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  tall,  still,  white 
form  of  a  woman  came  between  us  :  a  long 
garment  covered  her  from  head  to  foot ;  her 
deep,  dull  eyes  gazed  into  vacancy ;  her  pale, 
firm  lips  were  silent. 

This  woman  joined  our  hands  .  .  .  she 
reconciled  us  forever. 

Yes,  Death  reconciled  us. 

APRIL,  1878. 


THE  ROSE. 

IT  is  the  end  of  August.  Autumn  is  just 
beginning. 

The  sun  is  setting.  A  sudden,  brief  shower, 
without  thunder  and  lightning,  had  just  passed 
over  our  broad  plain. 

The  garden  in  front  of  the  house  glowed  in 
the  red  of  the  sunset,  and  was  still  wet  from 
the  rain. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  table  in  the  best 
room,  and  gazing  thoughtfully  through  the 
half-opened  door  into  the  garden. 

I  knew  what  was  passing  in  her  soul ;  I 
knew  that,  after  a  short,  painful  struggle,  she 
had  given  herself  up  for  the  moment  to  a  feel- 
ing that  she  could  no  longer  control. 

Suddenly  she  rose,  went  swiftly  out  into 
the  garden,  and  disappeared  from  view. 


THE  ROSE.  59 

An  hour  passed  —  two  hours ;  but  she  did 
not  return. 

Then  I  rose,  stepped  out  of  the  house,  and 
followed  the  path  which  I  thought  she  had 
taken. 

All  around  was  dark,  night  had  fallen.  But 
on  the  damp  gravel  of  the  path  could  be  de- 
scried, dimly  visible  through  the  darkness,  a 
round,  red  object. 

I  stooped.  It  was  a  young  half-opened 
rose.  Two  hours  before  I  had  seen  this  rose 
in  her  bosom. 

I  carefully  picked  the  flower  up  from  the 
mud,  and  placed  it  on  the  table  by  which  she 
had  been  sitting. 

At  last  she  returned,  and  crossing  the 
room  with  a  light  step  sat  down  at  the 
table. 

Her  face  was  paler  than  before,  but  more 
animated.  She  glanced  quickly  about  in  a 
sort  of  joyful  confusion,  with  half-closed  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  have  grown  smaller. 

Then  she  saw  the  rose  and  took  it  up,  looked 


60  THE  ROSE. 

at  its  crushed,  soiled  petals  ;  and  tears  shone 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Why  are  you  weeping  ? "  I  asked. 

"For  this  rose.  See  what  has  happened 
to  it." 

Then  I  thought  I  would  make  a  profound 
remark. 

"  Your  tears  will  wash  it  clean,"  said  I, 
meaningly. 

"  Tears  do  not  purify,  tears  burn,"  answered 
she,  turning  away,  and  throwing  the  rose 
into  the  half-extinguished  embers  in  the 
fireplace. 

"  Fire  burns  better  than  tears,"  added  she, 
somewhat  haughtily ;  and  her  beautiful  eyes 
still  met  mine  half-defiantly,  half-joyfully. 

I  knew  that  she  too  had  been  scorched. 

APRIL,  1878. 


6i 


THE  VISIT. 

I  WAS  sitting  at  the  open  window  early  in 
the  morning  of  the  first  of  May. 

It  was  not  yet  dawn,  there  was  a  faint  white- 
ness in  the  east ;  the  warm,  dark  night  was 
changing  into  the  cool  morning. 

No  mists  were  rising,  no  breath  of  air 
stirred.  All  was  colorless,  soundless  .  .  . 
Yet  one  already  felt  the  approach  of  day, 
and  there  was  a  strong  dewy  fragrance. 

Suddenly  a  large  bird  flew  rustling  in 
through  the  open  window. 

I  started  and  looked  at  it  closely.  It  was 
no  bird,  but  a  small,  winged  female  figure,  in 
a  long  clinging  garment  with  many  folds. 

It  was  pearl-gray  all  over,  except  that  on 
the  under  side  of  her  wings  shimmered  a 
pale  pink  like  a  half-opened  rose.  Her  curls 
were  confined  by  a  garland  of  lilies  of  the  val- 


62  THE  VISIT. 

ley,  and  two  peacock  feathers  waved  like  the 
feelers  of  a  butterfly  above  her  beautifully 
shaped  head. 

She  swept  up  and  down  the  room  a  few 
times ;  her  tiny  face  laughed,  and  her  large 
clear  eyes  smiled  and  sparkled  like  dia- 
monds in  the  enjoyment  of  her  capricious 
flight. 

She  held  in  her  hand  the  long  stem  of  a 
flower  of  the  steppes,  which  is  called  in 
Russia  the  "  Czar's  Sceptre,"  for  it  looks  like 
a  sceptre. 

She  touched  my  head  with  this  flower  as 
she  flew  past. 

I  tried  to  catch  her  .  .  .  but  she  had 
already  fluttered  out  of  the  window  and  dis- 
appeared. 

In  the  garden,  in  the  thicket  of  syringa 
bushes,  the  turtle-dove  received  her  with  her 
first  coo,  and  the  milk-white  heavens  became 
slightly  tinged  with  rose  in  the  direction  in 
which  she  had  flown. 

I  recognized  you,  goddess  of  fancy  !     You 


NECESSITAS  •  VIS  •  LIBER  TAS.  63 

were  so  kind  as  to  pay  me  one  last  visit ;  and 
then  you  flew  off  to  younger  poets. 

Poesy !  Youth  !  Maidenly  Beauty !  Just 
for  one  moment  you  shone  before  me  in  the 
early  dawn  of  the  first  day  of  Spring. 

MAY,  1878. 


NECESSITAS  •  VIS  •  LIBERTAS. 

A   BAS-RELIEF. 

A  TALL,  bony,  old  woman,  with  a  brazen 
countenance  and  unwavering  dull  glance,  is 
hastening  forward  with  huge  strides,  and  with 
her  stick-like  arms  is  pushing  forward  another 
woman. 

This  second  woman  is  enormously  large 
and  strong,  well-shaped,  and  with  muscles 
like  Hercules  !  Her  small  head  is  supported 
on  a  bull-like  throat ;  she  is  blind,  and  thrusts 
before  her  a  thin  little  girl. 

This  girl  alone  has   eyes   that   see ;    she 


64  THE  ALMS. 

braces  herself,  turns  about,  and  raises  her 
delicate  hands  ;  her  animated  face  expresses 
impatience  and  determination  .  .  .  She  does 
not  wish  to  obey  and  go  where  they  are  push- 
ing her,  but  is  yet  forced  along  in  spite  of 
herself. 

Necessitas  •  Vis  •  Libertas. 

Let  him  who  will  translate  this. 

MAY,  1878. 


THE   ALMS. 

IN  the  neighborhood  of  a  great  city,  along 
a  broad  highway,  was  walking  a  sick  old 
man. 

His  step  was  wavering ;  his  feeble  feet  fal- 
tered and  stumbled  weakly  and  heavily  along, 
as  if  unused  to  walking ;  his  clothing  was 
ragged,  his  bare  head  drooped  upon  his  breast. 
He  was  wholly  exhausted. 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  by  the  wayside, 


THE  ALMS.  65 

leaned  forward,  buried  his  face  in  both  hands, 
and  through  his  enlaced  fingers  tears  dropped 
on  the  gray  dust  of  the  road. 

He  was  thinking  of  his  past. 

He  had  once  been  rich  and  healthy ;  — 
he  had  ruined  his  health  and  squandered 
his  riches  on  friends  and  enemies.  And 
now  he  had  not  even  a  bit  of  bread.  He  had 
been  deserted  by  all, — by  his  friends  even 
sooner  than  by  his  enemies.  Could  he  really 
stoop  to  ask  for  alms  ?  His  heart  was  filled 
with  shame  and  bitterness. 

And  his  tears  kept  falling  and  wet  the  gray 
dust. 

Suddenly  he  heard  his  name  called ;  he 
raised  his  head  and  saw  before  him  a  stranger, 
whose  countenance  was  quiet  and  dignified, 
but  not  severe  ;  his  eyes  were  clear  but  not 
brilliant,  and  his  glance  was  penetrating  but 
not  malicious. 

"  You  have  parted  with  all  your  wealth," 
said  he,  with  a  quiet  voice.  "  Do  you  regret 
your  generosity  ? " 


66  THE  ALMS. 

"  No,  I  do  not  regret  it,"  answered  the  old 
man,  sighing.  "  But  now  I  must  die." 

"  If  there  had  been  no  poor  people  in  the 
world  who  had  stretched  out  their  hands  to 
you  for  help,"  continued  the  stranger,  "  then 
you  would  have  had  no  opportunity  to  prac- 
tise benevolence." 

The  old  man  became  sunk  in  thought,  and 
did  not  answer. 

"Overcome  your  pride,  poor  man,"  contin- 
ued the  stranger.  "  Go  and  stretch  out  your 
hand  and  give  other  good  men  a  chance  to 
prove  by  their  actions  that  they  are  charita- 
ble." 

The  old  man  trembled  and  raised  his  eyes 
.  .  .  but  the  stranger  had  disappeared.  .  .  . 
He  saw  a  traveller  in  the  distance. 

He  stepped  up  to  him,  and  stretched  out 
his  hand.  The  traveller  turned  angrily  away 
and  gave  him  nothing. 

Another  came  along,  who  gave  the  old  man 
a  small  alms. 

With  this  money  the  old  man  bought  some 


THE  INSECT.  67 

bread,  and  found  the  bread  of  charity  tasted 
sweet  to  him.  He  no  longer  felt  ashamed; 
on  the  contrary,  a  quiet  happiness  filled  his 
soul. 

MAY,  1878. 


THE  INSECT. 

I  DREAMED  that  there  were  about  twenty  of 
us  sitting  by  the  open  windows  of  a  large 
room. 

Women,  children,  and  old  men  were  to  be 
found  among  us.  We  were  all  talking  to- 
gether on  a  certain  familiar  topic ;  each  one 
spoke  eagerly  without  listening  to  what  the 
others  had  to  say. 

Suddenly  a  large  insect,  about  two  inches 
long,  flew  quickly  into  the  room,  circled  about 
and  settled  on  the  wall. 

It  looked  like  a  fly  or  wasp  ;  the  body  was 
dirt -colored,  its  hard,  flat  wings  were  of  the 
same  color ;  it  had  claw-like,  hairy  feet,  and  a 


68  THE  INSECT. 

large,  square  head  like  a  dragon-fly.  Its  head 
and  feet  were  blood-red. 

This  strange  insect  kept  stretching  its  head 
up  and  down,  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and 
moving  its  feet  at  the  same  time  .  .  .  Then  it 
left  the  wall,  and  flew  noiselessly  about  in  the 
chamber,  lighted  somewhere  else,  and  began 
stretching  itself  in  the  same  disgusting  way 
as  before. 

It  inspired  us  all  with  loathing,  fright,  even 
horror.  ...  No  one  had  ever  seen  anything 
like  it  before,  and  all  exclaimed  :  "  Drive  out 
the  terrible  thing !  "  and  shook  their  handker- 
chiefs at  it ;  but  no  one  dared  to  go  near  it 
.  .  .  and  all  shrank  away  involuntarily  when 
it  flew  in  their  direction. 

But  one  among  us,  a  pale  young  man,  looked 
at  the  rest  of  us  with  astonishment.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled,  and  could  not 
at  all  understand  what  was  the  matter  with  us 
all,  and  what  we  were  so  excited  about.  He 
neither  saw  the  insect  nor  heard  the  ominous 
rustling  of  its  wings. 


THE  CABBAGE-SOUP.  69 

Suddenly  the  insect  seemed  to  see  him. 
It  flew  up  above  him,  then  settling  slowly 
down  on  to  his  head,  it  stung  him  on  the  fore- 
head. The  young  man  gave  a  slight  cry,  and 
fell  dead. 

The  terrible  fly  flew  away  .  .  .  and  then 
we  first  guessed  what  sort  of  a  visitor  we  had 
had. 

MAY,  1878. 


THE  CABBAGE-SOUP. 

THE  only  son  of  a  widowed  peasant  woman 
had  died.  He  was  a  young  man  of  twenty, 
the  best  workman  in  the  village. 

The  lady  of  the  village  heard  of  the  woman's 
loss,  and  went  to  see  her  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral. 

She  found  her  at  home.  Standing  before  a 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  hut,  she  was  stead- 
ily ladling  up  cabbage-soup  from  an  earthen 


y0  THE  CABBAGE-SOUP. 

vessel,  and  slowly  swallowing  it  down  spoonful 
after  spoonful. 

The  old  woman's  face  was  sad  and  troubled, 
her  eyes  red  and  swollen  .  .  .  but  in  spite  of 
this  she  was  standing  there  as  erect  and  firm 
as  if  she  were  in  church. 

Heavens !  thought  the  lady.  .  .  .  Can  she 
eat  at  such  a  moment  ?  .  .  .  How  little  feel- 
ing these  people  have ! 

And  the  lady  now  remembered  how,  when 
she  had  lost  her  little  nine-year  old  daughter 
some  years  before,  she  had  been  so  overcome 
with  grief  as  not  to  care  to  hire  a  beautiful 
villa  in  the  neighborhood  of  Petersburg,  but 
had  spent  the  whole  summer  in  the  city !  But 
this  woman  went  on  eating  cabbage-soup. 

At  length  the  lady  grew  impatient,  and 
said  :  "  In  Heaven's  name  !  Tatiana,  I  am 
surprised.  .  .  .  Did  not  you  love  your  son  at 
all  ?  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  not  lost  your 
appetite  ?  How  can  you  eat  cabbage-soup  at 
such  a  time  ? " 

"My  Wassia  is  dead,"   said  the  woman, 


THE  HAPPY  LAND.  yt 

softly,  and  the  tears  ran  down  her  hollow 
cheeks  ;  "  I  shall  soon  die  too !  My  head 
has  been  cut  off  while  I  was  yet  living !  .  .  . 
But  why  should  the  soup  be  wasted?  It  has 
been  salted." 

The  lady  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  went  away.     Salt  costs  her  nothing. 

MAY,  1878. 


THE  HAPPY  LAND. 

0  HAPPY  land !  O  land  of  bliss,  of  light,  of 
youth,  of  joy !     I  have  seen  you  in  my  dreams. 
We  found  ourselves  on  a  beautiful,  gayly  deco- 
rated boat.    The  sail  swelled  out  like  a  swan's 
breast  beneath  the  gay  pennants. 

My  companions  were  unknown  to  me ;  but 
I  felt  with  my  whole  being  that  they  were  as 
young,  gay,  and  happy  as  I. 

1  scarcely  regarded  them,  but  only  gazed 
around    me   over    the    boundless    blue   sea 


72  THE  HAPPY  LAND. 

with  its  shining  waves  of  gold ;  over  my 
head  was  just  such  another  boundless  blue 
sea,  and  over  it  glided,  smiling  and  gay,  the 
bright  sun  on  its  circuitous  course. 

Now  and  then  there  arose  from  among  us 
loud,  joyous  laughter,  like  the  laughter  of  the 
gods. 

Sometimes  words  escaped  from  our  lips, 
verses  of  heavenly  beauty,  inspiration,  and 
power.  .  .  .  The  heaven  itself  seemed  to  echo 
in  answer,  and  the  ocean  around  quivered  with 
sympathy.  Then  came  blissful  quiet. 

Lightly  dipping  in  the  gentle  waves  swam 
the  swift  boat,  not  moved  by  the  winds,  but 
governed  by  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts. 
Obedient  to  our  wishes,  it  glided  along  like  a 
living  thing. 

We  met  with  some  islands  on  our  course, — 
enchanted  islands,  beaming  with  all  the  colors 
of  the  richest  jewels,  rubies,  emeralds.  In- 
toxicating perfumes  rose  from  their  curving 
shores.  One  of  these  islands  showered  us 
with  roses  and  lilies  of  the  valley ;  from  an- 


THE  HAPPY  LAND.  73 

other  long-winged,  rainbow-feathered  birds 
arose. 

The  birds  flew  in  wide  circles  over  our 
heads,  the  may-bells  and  roses  sank  into  the 
pearly  foam  which  glided  past  the  slippery 
sides  of  our  boat. 

Sweet,  enticing  sounds  meet  us  together 
with  the  flowers  and  birds  .  .  .  bewitching 
womanly  voices  resounded  ;  and  all  about,  sky 
and  sea,  the  waving  of  the  well-filled  sail,  the 
murmur  of  the  waves  at  the  prow,  all  sang 
of  love,  happy,  blissful  love. 

And  the  beloved  one  of  each  of  us  was 
there  .  .  .  invisible  yet  near.  Yet  a  moment, 
and  her  eyes  beam  upon  you,  that  is,  her 
smile.  Her  hand  clasps  yours,  and  leads  you 
into  an  eternal  Paradise. 

O  Land  of  Happiness!  I  saw  you  in  a 
dream. 

JUNE,  1878. 


74 


WHO   IS   THE   RICHER? 

IF  they  praise  in  my  presence  the  rich 
Rothschild,  who  gives  from  his  thousands  to- 
wards the  education  of  poor  children,  the 
healing  of  the  sick,  and  the  care  of  the  aged, 
I  am  touched  and  praise  him. 

But  while  I  am  touched  and  praise  him, 
I  involuntarily  remember  a  wretched,  poverty- 
stricken  peasant  family  who  received  a  poor 
orphan,  a  relation  of  theirs,  into  their  misera- 
ble, tumble-down  hut. 

"  We  will  take  Katey  in,"  said  the  wife,  — 
"  it  will  cost  us  our  last  penny ;  we  shan't  be 
able  even  to  afford  salt  to  salt  our  soup  with." 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  eat  it  unsalted,"  an- 
swered the  peasant,  her  husband. 

Rothschild  does  not  compare  with  this 
peasant ! 

JULY,  1878. 


75 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

DARK,  gloomy  days  came,  —  his  own  ill- 
ness, the  misfortune  of  those  dear  to  him, 
the  coldness  and  darkness  of  old  age.  All 
that  thou  didst  love,  all  that  was  dear  and 
precious  to  thee,  all  has  passed  away  and 
fallen  in  ruins.  Thou  art  on  the  downward 
path. 

But  what  can  one  do  ?  Complain  ?  La- 
ment ?  That  does  no  one  any  good. 

An  old  dying  tree  has  fewer  and  smaller 
leaves,  but  yet  has  some  green. 

Withdraw  into  thyself,  take  refuge  in  thine 
own  heart,  live  in  thy  recollections.  There, 
in  the  depths  of  thy  soul,  will  all  thine  early 
life,  as  thou  alone  knowest  it,  rise  anew  before 
thee  with  all  the  sweet,  vivid  freshness  and 
force  and  charm  of  the  spring. 

But,  poor  old  man,  don't  look  towards  the 
future ! 

JULY,  1878. 


THE  NEWSPAPER  CORRESPONDENT. 

Two  friends  are  sitting  at  table  and  drink- 
ing tea. 

Suddenly  there  is  heard  a  noise  in  the 
street,  —  railing,  groaning,  jeering,  laughter. 

"Some  one  is  getting  a  beating!"  re- 
marked one  of  the  friends,  looking  out. 

"  A  criminal  ?  .  .  .  Perhaps  a  murderer  ? " 
shouted  the  other.  "  Listen  !  Whoever  it 
may  be,  such  high-handed  proceedings  should 
not  be  allowed.  Come,  let  us  go  and  help 
him." 

"It  is  no  murderer  whom  they  are  beat- 
ing." 

"  No  murderer  ?  A  thief,  then !  All  right ; 
come,  let 's  free  him  from  the  hands  of  the 
mob." 

"  It 's  no  thief,  either." 

"  What !  not  a  thief  ?  Then  it  must  be 
a  cashier,  a  railroad  constructor,  an  army 


TWO  BROTHERS.  77 

contractor,  a  Russian  Mecaenas,  a  lawyer, 
a  well-meaning  newspaper  editor,  a  public 
benefactor.  It  makes  no  difference;  let  us 
go  and  help  him." 

"  No,  it  is  a  newspaper  correspondent  whom 
they  are  beating." 

"  Oh !  is  it  ?  A  newspaper  correspondent ! 
Well  —  do  you  know  —  I  think  we  had  better 
finish  our  tea  first." 

JULY,  1878. 


TWO  BROTHERS. 

I  HAD  a  vision. 

Two  angels  appeared  to  me,  two  genii. 

I  call  them  genii,  —  for  both  were  naked, 
and  had  long,  strong  wings  on  their  shoul- 
ders. 

Both  were  youths.  One  was  well-built, 
with  glossy  black  curls.  He  had  fiery  brown 
eyes  with  thick  eye-lashes ;  his  expression 
was  attractive,  cheerful,  and  eager;  his  face 


7  g  TWO  BROTHERS. 

was  charming,  fascinating,  somewhat  bold  and 
saucy-looking.  The  full  rosy  lips  twitched 
occasionally.  The  youth  smiled  like  a  con- 
queror, self-consciously  and  indolently ;  a 
splendid  garland  of  flowers  rested  on  his 
glossy  curls,  and  almost  touched  his  velvety 
eye-brows.  A  spotted  leopard-skin,  fastened 
with  a  golden  arrow,  hung  easily  from  his 
plump  shoulders  down  over  his  rounded  hips. 
The  feathers  of  his  wings  had  a  reddish  shim- 
mer, and  were  tipped  with  bright  red,  as  if 
just  dipped  in  fresh  crimson  blood.  From 
time  to  time  these  wings  shivered  with  a 
silvery  sound  like  the  rustling  of  spring 
rain. 

The  other  is  pale  and  sallow.  His  ribs 
stick  out  at  every  breath.  His  hair  is  thin, 
light,  and  smooth.  His  eyes  are  large,  round, 
and  light  gray,  with  a  strikingly  clear,  rest- 
less glance.  All  his  features  are  sharp ;  his 
small,  half-opened  mouth  has  pointed  teeth 
like  fishes'  teeth.  He  has  a  small,  aquiline 
nose,  and  his  prominent  chin  is  covered  with 


TWO  BROTHERS.  jg 

light  down.  His  thin  lips  have  never  once 
smiled. 

It  is  a  regular,  fear-inspiring,  unsympa- 
thetic face.  (The  other  one's  face,  too,  al- 
though sweet  and  lovely  to  look  at,  expresses 
no  sympathy.)  The  head  of  the  second  is 
hung  about  with  scanty,  empty  ears  of  corn, 
bound  with  withered  grasses.  A  rough  gray 
garment  covers  his  loins ;  his  wings,  which 
are  of  a  dull  dark  blue,  move  slowly  and 
threateningly. 

The  youths  seem  inseparable  companions. 
Each  of  them  leans  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
other.  The  soft  hand  of  the  first  lies  like  a 
full  bunch  of  grapes  on  the  other's  bony 
shoulder,  while  the  second  one's  hand  with 
its  long,  snake-like  fingers  rests  on  the  rounder 
breast  of  the  other.  .  .  .  And  I  heard  a  voice 
which  said  :  — 

"Love  and  Hunger  —  two  brothers,  the 
foundation  pillars  of  all  life,  stand  before 
you. 

"Every  living  thing  struggles  to  feed  it- 


8o  IN  MEMORY  OF  I.    P.  W. 

self,  and  feeds  itself  in  order  to  reproduce 
itself. 

"  Love  and  Hunger  —  their  aim  is  the  same, 
—  preservation  of  life,  of  one's  own  life  and 
the  life  of  others,  —  the  life  of  all." 

AUGUST,  1878. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  I.  P.  W. 

ON  dirty,  damp,  rotten  straw,  in  the  garret 
of  an  old  house,  which  had  been  hastily  con- 
verted into  a  field-hospital,  in  a  deserted 
Bulgarian  village,  —  she  lay  dying  of  typhus 
for  two  long  weeks. 

She  had  become  unconscious,  and  the  sur- 
geons troubled  themselves  no  longer  about 
her ;  but  the  sick  soldiers,  whom  she  had 
tended  as  long  as  she  could  keep  on  her  feet, 
took  turns  in  rising  from  their  sick-beds  to 
moisten  her  parched  lips  with  a  few  drops  of 
water. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  I.  P.  W.  Si 

She  was  young  and  beautiful,  known  to  the 
upper  ranks  of  society,  and  high  dignitaries 
had  paid  her  attention.  She  was  envied  by 
ladies  and  courted  by  gentlemen.  .  .  .  Two  or 
three  men  had  loved  her  warmly  and  silently. 
Life  smiled  upon  her;  but  there  are  some 
smiles  that  are  worse  than  tears. 

Such  a  gentle,  loving  heart,  —  and  such 
strength,  such  self-sacrifice !  She  knew  no 
other  happiness  than  to  help  the  needy  ;  she 
knew  no  other,  and  learnt  to  know  no  other. 
Every  other  joy  passed  by  her  unheeded.  She 
had  long  become  reconciled  to  this.  Her 
whole  being  was  filled  with  the  warmth  of 
an  inextinguishable  faith,  and  her  life  was 
wholly  devoted  to  the  service  of  her  fellow- 
creatures. 

What  imperishable  treasures  lay  buried  in 
the  depths  and  secret  places  of  her  soul,  no 
one  knew  ;  and  now  no  one  will  ever 
know. 

And  why  should  they  ?  .  .  .  The  sacrifice 
is  complete  .  .  .  her  work  is  done. 


82  THE  EGOTIST. 

But  it  is  a  sad  thought  that  her  body  re- 
ceived no  single  word  of  thanks,  although  she 
modestly  shunned  all  thanks. 

May  her  lovely  shadow  not  be  annoyed  by 
this  tardy  blossom,  which  I  venture  to  place 
upon  her  grave. 

SEPTEMBER,  1878. 


THE   EGOTIST. 

HE  had  all  the  qualities  best  calculated  to 
make  him  a  scourge  to  his  family. 

He  had  been  rich  and  healthy  from  his 
birth,  and  rich  and  healthy  he  remained  his 
whole  life  through.  He  never  allowed  him- 
self to  be  led  astray,  he  had  no  failings,  never 
made  a  promise  that  he  was  not  both  able 
and  willing  to  keep,  and  never  failed  in  what 
he  undertook. 

His  honesty  was  unimpeachable,  and  he 
oppressed  every  one  —  relations,  friends,  ac- 


THE  EGOTIST.  g, 

quaintances  —  with  his  proud  consciousness 
of  this  honesty. 

His  honesty  was  his  capital,  for  which  he 
drew  high  interest.  His  honesty  gave  him 
the  right  to  be  pitiless,  and  to  refuse  all  favors 
not  prescribed  by  law.  He  stood  on  his 
rights  without  pity  or  kindness  ;  for  kindness, 
performed  by  rule,  is  no  kindness. 

He  never  looked  out  for  any  one  except  for 
his  own  exemplary  self,  and  he  was  extremely 
exasperated  if  others  did  not  take  all  care  of 
his  own  estimable  personality. 

With  all  this,  he  did  not  at  all  consider 
himself  an  egotist ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was 
very  severe  in  his  blame  of  egotism  and 
egotists  —  naturally !  the  egotism  of  others 
interfered  with  his  own  egotism. 

As  he  was  conscious  of  having  no  weak 
points  himself,  he  neither  understood  nor  ex- 
cused weakness  in  others.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  understood  no  one  and  nothing ;  for  he  was 
entirely,  on  all  sides,  above  and  below,  before 
and  behind,  hemmed  in  and  surrounded  by 
self. 


84  THE  EGOTIST. 

He  had  no  comprehension  of  what  forgive- 
ness meant.  He  had  never  had  occasion  to 
pardon  anything  in  himself.  How  could  he 
know  how  to  forgive  others  ? 

This  monster  of  virtue  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  face  of  his  God,  before  the  bar  of  his  own 
conscience,  and  said  with  firm  clear  voice, 
"  Yes,  I  am  a  good,  virtuous  man." 

Even  on  his  deathbed  will  he  repeat  these 
words,  and  feel  no  emotion  in  his  heart  of 
stone,  —  in  his  spotless,  perfect  heart. 

Oh!  the  ugliness  of  self-satisfied,  rigid, 
cheap  virtue,  almost  more  loathsome  than  the 
naked  ugliness  of  vice. 

DECEMBER,  1878. 


THE    SUPREME   BEING'S   BANQUET. 

IT  once  occurred  to  the  Supreme  Being  to 
give  a  banquet  in  his  azure  halls. 

All  the  virtues  were  invited  to  it,  —  none  but 
the  virtues,  ...  so  there  were  no  men  — 
only  women. 

Many  of  these  were  assembled  there,  great 
and  small.  The  smaller  virtues  were  more 
agreeable  and  amiable  than  the  great ;  but  all 
seemed  in  good  spirits,  and  conversed  very 
politely  with  one  another,  as  beseemed  such 
near  relations  and  acquaintances. 

Then  the  Supreme  Being  noticed  two  beau- 
tiful ladies,  who  did  not  seem  to  know  each 
other. 

The  host  took  one  lady  by  the  hand  and  led 
her  up  to  the  other. 

"  Benevolence ! "  said  he,  pointing  to  the 
first. 


86  THE  NYMPHS. 

"  Gratitude !  "  added  he,  introducing  the 
second  to  her. 

Both  virtues  were  much  surprised  to  make 
each  other's  acquaintance.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  creation  of  the  world,  and  that  was 
a  great  while  ago,  they  now  met  face  to  face. 

DECEMBER,  1878. 


THE   NYMPHS. 

I  WAS  standing  before  a  splendid,  crescent- 
shaped  extended  chain  of  mountains,  which 
were  covered  from  top  to  bottom  by  a  green 
young  wood. 

The  transparent  blue  of  the  southern  sky 
was  above  them,  the  sunbeams  were  playing 
on  their  summits.  Swift-running  brooks,  half 
concealed  in  verdure,  were  murmuring  below. 

Then  I  remembered  the  old  story  of  the 
Greek  ship,  which  in  the  first  century  after 
the  birth  of  Christ  sailed  the  yEgean  sea :  — 


THE  NYMPHS.  87 

It  was  high  noon  and  the  weather  was 
calm.  Suddenly  a  voice  sounded  from  above, 
over  the  head  of  the  steersman:  "When 
you  pass  by  the  island,  call  with  a  loud  voice, 
'  Great  Pan  is  dead  ! '  "  The  steersman  was 
astonished  and  frightened.  But  when  the 
snip  came  by  the  island,  he  obeyed  and 
called  out,  "  Great  Pan  is  dead  !  "  And  at 
once  were  heard,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  call, 
all  along  the  shore  of  this  uninhabited  island, 
loud  sobbing,  groaning,  and  moaning  cries  : 
"  He  is  dead,  dead  ;  great  Pan  is  dead." 

I  was  thinking  of  this  legend,  and  a  sudden 
thought  occurred  to  me.  What  if  I  too  were 
to  call  out  something  ? 

But  in  the  presence  of  all  the  loveliness 
around,  I  could  not  think  of  death.  I  called 
with  all  my  might  :  —  "He  has  risen  ;  great 
Pan  has  risen  !  " 

And  suddenly,  a  miracle !  There  echoed 
immediately  as  if  in  answer  to  my  call,  along 
the  whole  broad  crescent  of  the  green  moun- 
tains, a  universal  laugh  and  murmur  and  joy- 


88  THE  NYMPHS. 

ous  prattling.  "  He  has  risen  ;  Pan  has  risen  ! " 
cried  youthful  voices.  All  around  me  broke 
out  gay  rejoicing,  brighter  than  the  sun  over- 
head, gayer  than  the  brooks  running  under 
the  grass.  Hasty  steps  approached  ;  through 
the  green  thicket  shimmered  alabaster  white 
garments  and  rosy  bare  limbs.  They  were 
the  nymphs !  nymphs,  dryads,  bacchantes, 
who  hastened  down  from  the  heights  into  the 
valleys. 

All  along  the  glades  they  suddenly  ap- 
peared, their  godlike  heads  adorned  with 
clustering  curls ;  garlands  and  tambourines 
in  their  hands  ;  laughter,  ringing  Olympian 
laughter,  echoed  and  rolled  down  before 
them. 

First  cf  all  advances  the  goddess ;  she  is 
the  stateliest,  most  beautiful  of  all  —  with 
her  quiver  on  her  shoulder,  her  bow  in  her 
hand,  and  the  silver  crescent  moon  on  her 
curls. 

Diana  !  —  is  it  thou  ? 

But  suddenly  the  goddess    stops,  motion- 


THE    NYMPHS.  %g 

less.  The  nymphs  follow  her  example.  The 
clear  laughter  dies  away.  In  indescribable 
terror,  with  parted  lips,  she  gazes  with  star- 
tled eyes  into  the  distance. 

I  turned  to  follow  the  direction  of  her  gaze. 
Across  the  fields,  on  the  uttermost  limit  of 
the  horizon,  shone  like  a  fiery  point  the 
golden  cross  on  the  white  steeple  of  a  Chris- 
tian church.  The  goddess  had  seen  this 
cross. 

I  heard  behind  me  a  long  trembling  sigh, 
like  the  trembling  of  a  broken  harp-string, 
and  when  I  again  looked  round,  the  nymphs 
had  vanished.  The  broad  forest  shone  green 
as  before,  and  here  and  there,  through  the 
thick  tangle  of  the  branches,  shimmered  and 
faded  a  gleam  of  white.  Was  it  the  gar- 
ments of  the  nymphs  or  the  rising  mist  from 
the  valley,  —  I  know  not. 

Yet  how  sorry  I  was  for  the  vanished 
goddess. 

DECEMBER,  1878. 


THE    SPHINX. 

YELLOWISH,  gray,  creaking  sand,  loose  on 
the  surface,  but  firm  underneath.  .  .  .  Sand 
without  end,  wherever  one  looks. 

And  over  this  sandy  desert,  over  this  sea 
of  dead  dust,  arises  the  gigantic  head  of  a 
sphinx. 

What  do  these  thick,  projecting  lips  wish 
to  say?  —  these  broad,  spreading  nostrils, 
and  these  eyes,  these  long,  half-sleepy,  half- 
observant  eyes,  under  the  double  curve  of 
their  high  brows  ? 

They  have  indeed  something  to  say !  They 
even  say  it ;  but  CEdipus  alone  can  solve  the 
riddle,  and  understand  its  dumb  speech. 

Ah  !  ...  I  recognize  these  features.  They 
have  no  longer  anything  Egyptian  about 
them.  The  low  white  brow,  the  prominent 
cheek-bones,  the  short  straight  nose,  the 


THE   SPHINX.  9I 

pretty  mouthful  of  white  teeth,  the  soft 
moustache,  and  the  curly  beard  on  the  chin. 
.  .  .  And  these  small  eyes  set  wide  apart, 
this  thick  hair  in  the  form  of  a  cap,  and  parted 
in  the  middle.  .  .  .  There  you  are,  Karp, 
Sidor,  Simon  ! 

Little  peasant  from  Jaroslaw,  Riazan  — 
you,  my  countryman  .  .  .  when  did  you  turn 
sphinx  ? 

Or  have  you  really  anything  to  say  ?  Yes, 
you  too  are  indeed  a  sphinx. 

Your  eyes,  those  colorless  but  deep  eyes, 
also  speak,  .  .  .  and  their  expression,  too,  is 
dumb  and  enigmatic. 

But  where  is  your  CEdipus  ? 

Ah,  it  is  not  enough  to  put  on  the  cap  of 
a  Slavophile  to  be  your  CEdipus,  —  oh,  you 
old  Russian  Sphinx ' 

DECEMBER,  1878. 


THE  FRIEND  AND  THE  ENEMY. 

A  PRISONER  condemned  to  lifelong  confine- 
ment escaped  from  his  prison  and  took  flight. 

His  pursuers  were  on  his  heels. 

He  ran  with  all  speed  and  outstripped 
them. 

Suddenly  he  saw  before  him  the  steep  bank 
of  a  river,  a  narrow  but  deep  river.  He 
could  not  swim. 

One  single  rotten  plank  bridged  it.  The 
fugitive  had  already  his  foot  upon  it.  ... 
His  best  friend  and  his  worst  enemy  hap- 
pened to  be  there  on  the  shore. 

His  enemy  folded  his  arms,  but  said  noth- 
ing ;  the  friend,  on  the  other  hand,  called 
out,  "For  Heaven's  sake!  what  are  you 
doing  ?  Don't  you  see  that  the  board  is 
rotten  ?  It  will  break  under  your  weight, 
and  you  will  certainly  drown ! " 


THE  FRIEND  AND   THE  ENEMY.  93 

"  But  there  is  no  other  way  of  getting 
across  !  .  .  .  and  my  pursuers  .  .  .  don't 
you  hear  them  ?  "  groaned  the  wretched  man 
despairingly,  and  stepped  upon  the  plank. 

u  I  will  not  let  you  !  No,  you  shall  not  go 
to  your  ruin  ! "  exclaimed  the  zealous  friend, 
pulling  the  board  away  from  under  the  feet 
of  the  fugitive,  who  was  hurled  into  the  rush- 
ing waves  and  drowned. 

The  enemy  laughed  complacently  and 
went  away ;  but  the  friend  sat  down  on  the 
shore  and  wept  bitterly  for  his  poor,  poor 
friend. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  for  a  moment  that 
he  could  be  to  blame  for  his  death. 

"  He  would  not  take  my  advice !  He 
would  not  take  my  advice,"  he  whispered 
sadly. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  he  at  last,  "  he  would 
have  been  forced  to  languish  his  whole  life 
long  in  that  frightful  prison.  Now  he  is 
freed  from  his  sufferings !  It  is  easier  for 
him  so.  It  was  his  fate. 


94  CHRIST. 

"  But,  humanly  speaking,  I  am  sorry  all 
the  same ! " 

And  the  good  soul  sobbed,  and  was  long 
inconsolable  over  his  friend's  unhappy  fate. 

DECEMBER,  1878. 


CHRIST. 

ONCE  when  I  was  a  lad,  scarcely  more  than 
a  boy,  I  happened  to  be  in  a  lovely  village 
church.  The  thin  wax  candles  glowed  like 
red  points  before  the  pictures  of  the  saints. 

A  rainbow-colored  glow  surrounded  each 
flame.  It  was  dim  and  dark  in  the  church, 
but  many  people  were  there  standing  in  front 
of  me. 

They  were  all  brown-haired  peasants'  heads, 
which  moved  up  and  down  in  a  wave-like  mo- 
tion, rising  and  falling  like  ripe  ears  of  wheat 
when  tossing  in  the  summer  wind. 

Suddenly  some  one  stepped  in  behind  me, 
and  placed  himself  near  me. 


CHRIST.  95 

I  did  not  turn,  but  had  nevertheless  a  feel- 
ing that  this  man  —  was  Christ. 

I  was  overcome  by  emotion,  curiosity,  and 
fright  all  at  once.  I  controlled  myself,  and 
looked  at  my  neighbors. 

He  had  a  countenance  like  other  people's  ; 
—  a  countenance  like  any  other  man's  face. 
The  eyes  were  looking  softly  and  attentively 
upward.  The  lips  were  closed,  but  not  com- 
pressed ;  the  upper  lip  seemed  to  rest  on  the 
lower.  His  beard  was  not  long  and  was  parted 
at  the  chin.  His  hands  were  folded  and  mo- 
tionless. Even  his  dress  was  like  that  of 
others. 

Can  this  be  Christ  ?  I  thought,  —  such  an 
unpretending,  perfectly  simple  person?  It 
is  not  possible. 

I  turned  away,  but,  scarcely  had  I  with- 
drawn my  glance  from  this  plain  man,  when 
it  seemed  to  me  that  he  who  was  standing  by 
me  must  really  be  Christ. 

I  looked  at  him  once  more,  and  again  I 
saw  the  same  face  that  looked  like  the  faces 


96  THE  STONE. 

of  all  other  men ;  the  same  every-day  though 
unfamiliar  features. 

At  last  I  became  uncomfortable,  and  col- 
lected myself.  Then  it  suddenly  became  clear 
to  me  that  Christ  had  really  just  such  a  com- 
mon human  face. 

JUNE,  1878. 


THE  STONE. 

HAVE  you  ever  seen  an  old  gray  stone  lying 
on  the  shore  of  the  ocean,  where  at  high-tide 
on  a  sunny  day  the  pulsing  waves  wash  up 
around  it,  fawn  upon  it,  caressingly  embrace 
it,  and  sprinkle  its  mossy  bed  with  a  plashing, 
pearly  shower  ? 

The  stone  remains  always  the  same,  though 
its  dark  surface  shines  in  brighter  colors. 

These  colors  bear  witness  that  once  long 
ago,  when  the  liquid  granite  had  scarcely  be- 
gun to  cool,  it  glowed  through  and  through 
with  fiery  tints. 


THE  DOVES.  97 

So  was  it  too  with  my  old  heart,  when  a 
short  time  since  young  womanly  beings  laid 
siege  to  it  from  all  sides  ;  —  beneath  their 
caressing  touch  the  long-faded  tints  revived 
and  shone  with  their  former  glow. 

The  waves  have  ebbed  .  .  .  but  the  colors 
have  not  wholly  disappeared,  although  a  sharp 
wind  is  effacing  them  more  and  more. 

MAY,  1879. 


THE   DOVES. 

I  STOOD  on  the  top  of  a  softly-swelling  hill ; 
before  me  lay  a  field  of  rye,  like  an  ocean 
bright  with  silver  and  gold.  There  was  no 
motion  of  waves  on  this  sea;  the  sultry  air 
was  unstirred,  —  a  mighty  thunder-storm  was 
approaching. 

Where  I  was  the  sun  still  shone  warm ;  but 
yonder,  over  the  other  side  of  the  field,  not 
very  far  off,  hung  a  dark-blue  thunder-cloud, 
like  a  monstrous  burden  over  half  the  vault  of 
heaven. 


98  THE  DOVES. 

Everything  sought  shelter  .  .  .  everything 
groaned  beneath  the  ominous  glow  of  the  last 
sunbeams.  There  was  no  bird  in  sight,  none 
uttered  a  note ;  even  the  sparrow  had  crept 
away  and  hidden  itself. 

How  strong  was  the  perfume  of  the  worm- 
wood in  the  grove  !  I  looked  up  at  the  dark 
thunder-cloud,  .  .  .  and  a  feeling  of  unrest 
took  possession  of  my  spirit.  Now  then 
quick,  quick  !  I  thought.  Gleam,  golden  ser- 
pent ;  thunder,  roll !  Come  up  here,  come  on ; 
fling  down  your  masses  of  water,  grim  clouds  ! 
Shorten  this  terrible  waiting  ! 

Yet  the  storm-cloud  stirred  not.  It  only 
weighed  down  as  oppressively  as  ever  upon 
the  silent  earth,  and  seemed  to  pile  itself  ever 
higher  and  grow  yet  darker. 

Suddenly  an  object  shone  out,  floating 
lightly  against  the  monotonous  dark  back- 
ground of  the  cloud.  It  looked  like  a  white 
handkerchief  or  like  a  snow-ball;  —  it  was  a 
white  dove  flying  over  from  the  village. 


THE   DOVES.  gg 

It  flew  and  flew  always  straight  ahead  .  .  . 
at  last  it  disappeared  behind  the  wood. 

A  few  moments  went  by ;  the  same  op- 
pressive quiet  still  reigned.  But  look  !  Now 
there  are  two  little  handkerchiefs,  two  snow- 
balls, shining  there  and  flying  back,  two  white 
doves  taking  their  quiet  flight  homewards. 

And  now  at  last  the  storm  broke  loose,  and 
the  dance  began ! 

I  had  scarcely  time  to  reach  the  house. 
The  wind  whistled  and  roared  mightily ;  low, 
tawny,  ragged  clouds  scurried  by.  All  whirled 
dizzily  in  mad  confusion  together  :  the  mighty 
pouring  rain  beat  and  rattled  down  in  vertical 
streams ;  the  lightning  flashed  its  blinding, 
greenish  fire  ;  there  was  a  smell  of  brimstone. 

Under  an  overhanging  roof,  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  dormer  window,  sit  two  white 
doves  side  by  side,  —  the  one  who  flew  out  to 
fetch  his  companion,  and  the  other  who  was 
perhaps  saved  by  him. 

Both  are  smoothing  their  feathers  and 
pressing  close  together. 


100  TO-MORROW,    TO-MORROW! 

They  are  happy !  and  while  I  watch  them 
I  am  happy,  although  I  am  alone,  —  alone 
as  always. 

MAY,  1879. 


TO-MORROW,    TO-MORROW! 

How  empty  and  dull,  how  insignificant  is 
almost  every  day  that  passes  by  me !  How 
few  traces  each  one  leaves  behind  it !  How 
meaningless  are  all  these  hours  that  pass  one 
after  the  other ! 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  man  wishes  to  live  ; 
he  values  life,  he  hopes  for  something  from 
it,  from  himself,  from  the  future.  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  a  rich  blessing  he  expects  from  the 
future ! 

But  why  does  he  imagine  that  future  days 
will  not  be  like  the  past  ? 

He  does  not  imagine  it.  He  does  not  like 
to  think  much  about  it ;  and  there  he  is  right. 


NATURE.  IOI 

"  Well,  to-morrow,  to-morrow  !  "  He  com- 
forts himself  with  this  "  to-morrow  "  until  it 
finally  leads  him  to  the  grave. 

And  when  one  is  once  in  one's  grave  — 
then  thought  ceases  of  itself. 

MAY,  1879. 

NATURE. 

ONCE  I  dreamed  that  I  was  in  a  great  sub- 
terranean, high-arched  hall.  The  whole  hall 
was  lit  up  by  an  equal  light,  which  seemed  to 
come  from  beneath  the  earth. 

In  the  middle  of  this  hall  sat  the  majestic 
form  of  a  woman,  clothed  in  a  loose  green  dress. 
With  her  head  supported  in  her  hand,  she 
seemed  sunk  in  profound  thought. 

I  soon  guessed  that  this  woman  must  be 
Nature  herself ;  and  a  reverential  fear,  like  a 
sudden  shiver,  penetrated  my  soul. 

I  approached  her,  and  greeting  her  respect- 
fully, I  cried  :  "  O,  Mother  of  us  all !  on  what 


I02  NATURE. 

are  you  meditating  ?  Are  you  perhaps  think- 
ing of  the  future  fate  of  mankind,  or  of  the 
long  road  that  man  must  travel  in  order  to 
reach  the  greatest  possible  perfection  —  the 
highest  happiness  ? " 

The  woman  slowly  turned  her  dark,  terrible 
eyes,  her  lips  moved,  and  with  a  thundering 
metallic  voice  she  spoke  :  — 

"  I  am  considering  how  to  give  greater 
strength  to  the  muscles  in  a  flea's,  leg  so  that 
it  may  escape  more  easily  from  its  enemies. 
The  equilibrium  between  attack  and  defence 
is  lost,  and  must  be  restored." 

"  Wh-a-t  ?  "  stammered  I,  "  is  that  what  you 
are  thinking  about  ?  Are  not  we  men  then 
your  dearest,  favorite  children  ? " 

The  woman  frowned  slightly,  and  said  :  "All 
creatures  are  my  children  ;  I  care  equally  for 
you  all,  —  and  annihilate  all  without  distinc- 
tion." 

"But  virtue  —  reason  —  justice?"  I  stam- 
mered again. 

"  Those  are  human  words !  "  resounded  the 


"HANG  HIM!"  IO3 

brazen  voice,  "  I  recognize  no  good  or  bad ; 
reason  is  no  law  for  me  ;  and  what  is  jus- 
tice ?  I  gave  you  life  ;  I  take  it  from  you 
and  give  it  to  others, — worms  or  men,  it 
is  all  the  same  to  me  .  .  .  but  as  for  thee, 
protect  thyself  for  a  while,  and  leave  me  in 
peace." 

I  strove  to  answer,  but  the  earth  groaned 
and  trembled,  and  I  awoke. 

AUGUST,  1879. 


"HANG    HIM!" 

IT  was  in  the  year  1803,  began  my  old 
friend,  not  very  long  before  Austerlitz.  The 
regiment  in  which  I  was  an  officer  was  sta- 
tioned in  Moravia. 

We  were  strictly  forbidden  to  molest  or  op- 
press the  inhabitants  ;  nevertheless  we  were 
looked  upon  with  suspicion,  although  we  were 
allies. 


I04  "HANG  HIM!" 

I  had  for  body-servant  a  fellow  called  Jegor, 
a  former  serf  of  my  mother's.  He  was  an 
honest,  quiet  fellow.  I  had  known  him  all 
his  life,  and  treated  him  like  a  friend. 

Now,  one  day  there  arose  outcries  and  com- 
plaints in  the  house  in  which  I  lodged.  Some 
one  had  stolen  two  hens  from  the  woman  of 
the  house,  and  she  accused  my  servant  of  the 
theft.  He  sought  to  defend  himself  and  called 
me  to  witness.  .  .  .  He,  Jegor  Avtamonov, 
a  thief  ?  I  assured  the  woman  that  he  was 
honest,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  me. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tramp  of  horses  in 
the  street.  It  was  the  Commander-in-chief, 
who  was  passing  with  his  staff. 

He  was  riding  by  at  a  walk  ;  a  stout,  thick- 
set man,  with  his  head  bent  and  his  epaulettes 
hanging  forward  on  his  chest. 

When  the  woman  saw  him  she  threw  her- 
self, with  dishevelled  hair,  on  her  knees  before 
his  horse,  seized  his  stirrup,  and  complained 
loudly  of  my  man,  whom  she  pointed  out. 

"  General  !  "     cried    she,     "  your    Honor ! 


I05 

Judge  us  !  Defend  us  !  Save  us  !  This  sol- 
dier has  robbed  me." 

Jegor  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  house  as 
straight  as  a  ramrod,  his  chest  out,  his  heels 
together,  his  cap  in  his  hand  ;  but  he  uttered 
not  a  word. 

Whether  Jegor  was  overawed  by  the  sight 
of  all  these  generals  who  had  stopped  before 
him  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  or  whether 
he  was  petrified  at  the  thought  of  his  impend- 
ing danger,  I  do  not  know :  he  stood  stiffly 
there,  casting  down  his  eyes,  and  as  pale  as  a 
sheet. 

The  Commander-in-chief  glanced  carelessly 
and  frowningly  at  him,  and  growled  out, 
"  Well  ? "  Jegor  stood  there  stiff  and  motion- 
less, showing  his  teeth  like  an  idiot ;  one 
might  almost  have  thought  he  was  laugh- 
ing. 

Then  said  the  Commander-in-chief  abruptly, 
"  Hang  him  !  "  He  spurred  his  horse  and  rode 
on,  first  at  a  walk,  then  at  a  gentle  trot,  fol- 
lowed by  his  whole  staff.  Only  one  adjutant 


I06  "HANG   HIM!" 

turned  in  his  saddle  and  glanced  for  an  in- 
stant at  Jegor. 

It  was  impossible  to  disregard  such  a  com- 
mand ;  Jegor  was  seized  and  led  off  to  execu- 
tion. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  shrank  from 
death,  and  called  out  earnestly  once  or  twice  : 
"  Lord  God,  help  me !  "  and  added,  under 
his  breath,  "  As  God  is  my  witness,  I  did  not 
do  it ! " 

He  wept  bitterly  on  taking  leave  of.  me. 
I  was  in  despair.  "  Jegor,  Jegor ! "  I  ex- 
claimed, "  why  did  n't  you  speak  to  the  gene- 
ral ? " 

"As  God  is  my  witness,  it  was  not  I  who 
did  it,"  repeated  the  poor  fellow,  sobbing. 
Even  the  woman  herself  was  horrified.  She 
had  not  at  all  expected  such  a  fearful  result, 
and  she,  on  her  part,  began  to  cry  and  shriek  ; 
wringing  her  hands,  she  begged  each  and 
every  one  to  have  mercy,  that  she  had  found 
her  hens,  that  she  would  explain  everything. 

Of  course  all  this  led  to  no  result.     That  is 


WHAT  SHALL  I   THINK  ABOUT'?  Ioj 

the  way  of  war,  my  dear  sir,  —  military  disci- 
pline !  The  woman  sobbed  terribly. 

Jegor,  who  had  already  confessed  to  the 
priest  and  partaken  of  the  last  communion, 
turned  to  me  :  "  Tell  her,  sir,  that  she  must 
not  grieve  so.  I  have  already  forgiven  her." 

My  friend,  when  he  had  repeated  these  last 
words  of  his  servant,  whispered,  "  My  little 
Jegor,  my  dear  fellow,  you  good  lad!"  and 
the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

AUGUST,  1879. 


WHAT   SHALL   I   THINK  ABOUT? 

WHAT  shall  I  think  about,  when  I  am  dy- 
ing, —  provided  that  I  am  in  a  condition  to 
think  at  all  ? 

Shall  I  think  I  have  made  a  poor  use  of  my 
life  ?  That  I  have  idled  and  dreamed  it 
away  ?  That  I  have  not  known  how  to  make 
the  most  of  its  gifts  ? 

What  ?    Has  death  come  already  ?    So  soon  ? 


IO8  "HOW  LOVELY  AND  FRESH 

Impossible !  .  .  .  I  have  really  not  had  time  to 
do  anything !  I  was  just  going  to  undertake . . . 
Shall  I  think  of  the  past  ?  Will  my 
thoughts  be  directed  to  the  few  bright  mo- 
ments I  have  had  —  to  beloved  forms  and 
persons  ? 


"HOW  LOVELY  AND   FRESH  THOSE 
ROSES  WERE  !  " 

SOMEWHERE,  sometime,  long,  long  ago,  I 
read  a  poem,  which  I  soon  forgot.  Only  the 
first  line  remained  in  my  memory,  — 

"  How  lovely  and  fresh  those  roses  were ! " 

Now  it  is  winter ;  the  window-panes  are 
covered  with  frost ;  a  single  lamp  burns  in 
the  dim  chamber.  I  sit  in  the  corner,  and 
there  keeps  running  in  my  head, 

"  How  lovely  and  fresh  those  roses  were !  " 

I  see  myself  before  the  low  window  of  a 
Russian  country-house.  The  summer  day  is 


THOSE  ROSES   WERE!"  IOn 

sinking  gently  to  rest  and  passing  into  night ; 
the  soft  air  is  filled  with  the  fragrance  of 
mignonette  and  of  the  blooming  lindens.  On 
the  window-seat  is  sitting  a  girl  supported  by 
her  upraised  arm,  her  head  bending  toward 
her  shoulder.  She  is  gazing  fixedly  and  si- 
lently up  into  the  sky  as  if  watching  for  the 
stars  to  come  out.  How  full  of  feeling  are 
those  dreamy  eyes  ;  how  touchingly  innocent 
her  half-opened,  questioning  lips  ;  how  quietly 
rises  and  falls  her  girlish  bosom  as  yet  undis- 
turbed by  passion  ;  and  how  pure  and  tender 
is  the  outline  of  her  youthful  face !  I  do  not 
venture  to  address  her  ;  but  how  dear  she  is 
to  me,  how  my  heart  beats  ! 

"  How  lovely  and  fresh  those  roses  were  !  " 

In  the  room  it  grows  ever  darker  .  .  .  the 
lamp  which  has  burnt  low  flickers,  and  fugi- 
tive shadows  tremble  on  the  low  ceiling.  The 
sharp  frost  creaks  loudly  outside  the  wall,  and 
I  hear  nothing  but  the  sad  whisper  of  old 
age:  — 

"  How  lovely  and  fresh  those  roses  were!  " 


IIO         "HOW  LOVELY  AND  FRESH,"  ETC. 

Other  scenes  from  the  past  arise  before  me. 
I  hear  the  joyous  bustle  of  family  life.  Two 
little  brown  curly  heads,  pressed  one  against 
the  other,  look  me  in  the  face  with  their 
roguish  eyes  ;  their  rosy  cheeks  dimple  with 
suppressed  laughter ;  their  hands  are  clasped 
lovingly  together ;  the  caressing  youthful 
voices  mingle  joyously,  and  in  the  background 
of  the  cosy  old  room  young  uncertain  fingers 
wander  over  the  keys  of  a  worn-out  old  piano- 
forte, and  do  not  succeed  in  drowning  the 
humming  of  the  samovar  in  the  notes  of  the 
Lanner  valse  ! 

"  How  lovely  and  fresh  those  roses  were!  " 

.  .  .  The  lamp  goes  out  and  it  is  dark. 
Who  is  that  coughing  there  so  hoarsely? 
Rolled  up  at  my  feet  lies  my  only  companion, 
the  old  dog,  shivering  and  starting  in  his 
sleep.  I  am  cold  .  .  .  all,  all  are  dead,  .  .  . 
all  dead ! 

"  How  lovely  and  fresh  those  roses  were!  " 
SEPTEMBER,  1879. 


A  TRIP  BY   SEA. 

I  CROSSED  in  a  little  steamer  from  Ham- 
burg to  London.  There  were  two  of  us  pas- 
sengers, —  I  and  a  little  ape,  a  little  female 
uistiti,  which  a  Hamburg  merchant  was  send- 
ing as  a  present  to  his  English  partner. 

The  little  animal  was  fastened  by  a  slender 
chain  to  a  bench  on  the  deck,  and  it  twitched 
at  its  chain  and  peeped  complainingly  like  a 
bird. 

Every  time  I  passed,  it  stretched  out  to  me 
its  cold  black  hand,  and  looked  fixedly  at  me 
with  its  sad,  almost  human,  eyes.  I  took  its 
hand,  and  it  stopped  peeping  and  twitching. 

There  came  a  calm.  The  sea  lay  before  us 
like  a  motionless  leaden  sheet.  It  did  not 
seem  vast ;  for  it  was  hemmed  in  by  a  thick 
fog,  which  even  hid  the  top  of  the  masts  and 
wearied  our  eyes  by  its  impenetrability.  The 


II2  A    TRIP  BY  SEA. 

sun  hung  like  a  dull  red  spot  in  the  dark  mist ; 
but  toward  evening  it  brightened  and  spread 
over  the  heaven  a  mysterious,  ominous,  red 
glow. 

Long  straight  folds,  like  folds  of  heavy  silk, 
extended  downward  from  the  prow  and  spread 
apart,  curled  up,  and  smoothed  themselves 
out  again,  at  last  disappearing  in  ripples. 
The  whirling  foam  bubbled  up  like  milk 
beneath  the  monotonously  plunging  wheels, 
spreading  apart,  then  flowing  together  in 
snake-like  jets,  again  to  disappear  and  be 
shallowed  up  by  the  thick  fog. 

The  ding-dong  of  the  little  bell  at  the  stern 
sounded  carelessly  and  complainingly ;  it  was 
as  wearing  as  the  squeaking  of  the  ape. 

Here  and  there  arose  a  seal,  but  to  disap- 
pear again,  plunging  headlong  under  the 
slightly  rippled  surface. 

The  captain,  a  silent  man,  with  a  dark  sun- 
burnt face,  smoked  his  short  pipe,  and  spat 
moodily  into  the  motionless  sea. 

He  only  answered  my  questions  by  a  shcrt 


'A    TRIP  BY  SEA.  H, 

growl,  so  that  I  was,  in  spite  of  myself,  thrown 
for  companionship  on  my  only  fellow-voyager, 
the  ape. 

I  sat  down  by  it,  it  ceased  its  peeping,  and 
again  held  its  hand  out  to  me. 

The  perpetual  fog  veiled  us  in  its  dreamy 
circle  of  mist.  We  sat  side  by  side  like  two 
relations,  alike  in  unconscious  meditation. 

Now,  I  smile  at  this  .  .  .  then,  I  felt  dif- 
ferently. 

We  are  all  the  children  of  one  mother ; 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  me  to  see  the  poor 
little  animal  grow  trustfully  quiet,  and  lean  up 
against  me  like  a  friend. 

NOVEMBER,  1879. 


N.   N. 

HARMONIOUSLY  and  quietly,  without  tears 
as  without  smiles,  you  pass  through  life,  unat- 
tached by  the  commonest  ties. 

You  are  good  and  wise  .  .  .  but  you  are 
remote  from  all,  and  depend  on  none. 

You  are  beautiful,  and  no  one  can  accuse 
you  of  setting  any  store  by  your  beauty.  You 
are  unsympathetic  yourself,  and  you  ask  fcr 
nobody's  sympathy. 

Your  eyes  are  deep  but  not  meditative  ;  in 
their  clear  depth  is  emptiness. 

Such  harmonious  shadows  as  you  wander 
in  the  Elysian  fields  to  the  sublime  notes  of 
Gluck's  melodies,  joyless  and  sorrowless. 

NOVEMBER,  1879. 


STOP! 

STOP  !  As  I  see  you  now,  remain  forever 
in  my  memory.  From  your  lips  has  escaped 
the  last  inspired  tone.  Your  glance  does 
not  beam  and  sparkle ;  it  is  dim,  overcome 
by  the  blessed  consciousness  of  that  beauty 
which  it  has  been  given  to  you  to  express 
...  of  that  beauty  towards  which  you  seem 
to  hold  out  triumphant  yet  weary  arms. 

What  a  gleam  —  tenderer  and  purer  than 
the  light  of  the  sun — lights  up  your  whole 
form,  even  the  least  fold  of  your  garments ! 

What  god's  caressing  breath  has  thrown 
back  your  loose  curls  ? 

His  kisses  burn  yet  on  your  white  alabaster 
brow.  See,  there  is  manifest  the  mystery  of 
poetry,  of  life,  of  love !  See  immortality 
there !  There  is  no  need  of  any  other.  For 
this  moment  you  are  immortal  !  This  mo- 


n6  THE  MONK. 

ment  will  pass  away,  and  you  will  become 
again  a  pinch  of  ashes,  a  woman,  a  child. 
.  .  .  But  what  matters  it  to  you  ?  For  this 
one  moment  you  are  higher,  more  sublime 
than  all  things  mortal,  changeable.  For  this 
moment  you  are  immortal. 

Stop,  and  let  me  share  your  immortality ; 
let  fall  into  my  soul  a  beam  of  your  eternal 
beauty ! 

NOVEMBER,  1879. 


THE   MONK. 

I  KNEW  a  monk, — a  hermit,  a  holy  man. 
He  lived  only  for  the  delights  of  prayer,  and, 
intoxicated  by  it,  he  would  stand  so  long  on 
the  cold  floor  of  the  church  that  his  legs 
would  swell  from  the  knees  downward,  and 
become  like  stone  pillars.  They  lost  all  feel- 
ing, while  he  stood  there  and  prayed. 

I  understood  him,  —  even  envied,  him  per- 
haps ;  but  he  ought  to  understand  me  too, 


LET'S  KEEP  A   GOOD  HEART.  II7 

and  not  despise  one  to  whom  his  joys  are 
unattainable. 

He  has  succeeded  in  annihilating  his  hated 
self ;  but  if  I  cannot  pray,  it  is  not  from  ego- 
tism ! 

My  self  is  perhaps  more  burdensome  and 
hateful  to  me  than  his  to  him. 

He  has  found  a  means  of  forgetting  him- 
self ;  but  I  too  find  forgetfulness  of  self  some- 
times, if  not  always. 

He  is  no  hypocrite  —  but  neither  am  I. 

NOVEMBER,  1879. 


LET'S   KEEP  A  GOOD   HEART. 

WHAT  an  unimportant  trifle  may  often 
change  the  course  of  a  man's  life  ! 

Once  I  was  going  thoughtfully  along  the 
highway. 

My  soul  was  weighed  down  by  heavy  fore- 
bodings. I  was  overcome  with  despondency. 


ng  LET'S  KEEP  A    GOOD  HEART. 

I  raised  my  head  .  .  .  straight  before  me 
ran  the  road  between  two  stiff  rows  of  pop- 
lars. And  across  the  road,  about  ten  paces 
in  front  of  me,  were  hopping  in  single  file  a 
family  of  sparrows,  full  of  life,  merriment  and 
courage. 

One,  in  particular,  distinguished  himself 
by  his  bold,  sideways  hopping ;  he  stuck  out 
his  little  breast,  and  twittered  as  bravely  as  if 
he  did  not  fear  the  devil  himself.  A  true 
conqueror ! 

Meanwhile,  a  hawk  circled  overhead,  whose 
destiny  it  was,  perhaps,  to  devour  this  very 
hero. 

I  looked,  was  forced  to  laugh,  and  regained 
my  self-possession.  My  gloomy  thoughts  had 
vanished ;  I  felt  again  courage,  energy,  and 
life. 

A  hawk  may  be  circling  over  me ;  but  the 
devil  take  it !  —  let's  keep  a  good  heart ! 

NOVEMBER,  1879. 


PRAYER. 

WHATEVER  a  man  may  pray  for,  he  prays 
for  a  miracle.  Every  prayer  comes  to  this  : 
"Great  God,  let  twice  two  not  make  four." 

Only  such  a  prayer  is  a  real  prayer,  face  to 
face.  To  pray  to  the  Spirit  of  the  universe, 
to  the  Supreme  Being,  —  to  the  abstract,  un- 
real god  of  Kant  or  Hegel,  —  is  impossible, 
unthinkable. 

But  can  a  personal,  living,  imaginable  God 
make  twice  two  other  than  four  ? 

Every  true  believer  must  answer,  "  Yes. 
He  can."  And  he  is  obliged  to  convince 
himself  of  it. 

But  what  if  his  reason  rebels  against  such 
nonsense  ? 

Then  Shakspere  comes  to  his  aid  :  "  There 
are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio." 

But  if  you  seek  to  controvert  him  in  the 


I20  THE  RUSSIAN  LANGUAGE. 

name  of  truth  ?     He   has  merely  to  repeat 
the  well-known  question,  "  What  is  truth  ? " 

And  so,  let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  — 
and  pray. 

JULY, 1881 


THE   RUSSIAN    LANGUAGE. 

IN  these  days  of  doubt,  in  these  days  of 
painful  brooding  over  the  fate  of  my  country, 
you  alone  are  my  rod  and  my  staff,  O  great, 
mighty,  true,  and  free  Russian  language  !  If 
it  were  not  for  you,  how  could  one  keep  from 
despairing  at  the  sight  of  what  is  going  on  at 
home?  But  it  is  inconceivable  that  such  a 
language  should  not  belong  to  a  great  people. 

JUNE,  1882. 


THE    CATALOGUE 

OF  THE 

ART  DEPARTMENT 

OF  THE 

MANUFACTURERS  AND  MECHANICS  INSTITUTE, 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


Is  the  most  magnificent  effort  yet  made  In  this  country  to  place 
before  tlie  public,  in  a  single,  compact  volume,  the  results  that  to  this 
date  have  been  reached  in  American  Art.  It  excels  all  catalogues  of 
Art  that  have  been  produced  either  in  this  country  or  in  Europe,  and 
is  designed  to  serve  many  other  purposes  Hum  the  one  that  was  the 
immediate  occasion  of  its  production.  It  was  planned  and  executed 
with  immense  pains,  and  absolutely  regardless  of  cost,  by  John  M. 
Little,  the  Chairman,  and  Frank  T.  Robinson,  the  Art  Director,  of  the 
Exposition,  solely  in  the  interests  of  the  Art  and  the  Art-industries 
of  this  country.  One  motive  pervades  the  whole  book,  and  finds 
enthusiastic  expression  in  its  every  page;  namely,  to  produce  a 
work  which  for  practical  value  and  importance  should  be  attractive 
alike  to  artists,  designers,  photographers,  printers,  manufacturers, 
indeed  to  all  whose  professions  and  livelihoods  are  allied  with  Art 
and  Art-progress. 

It  is  a  large  quarto  of  300  pages,  printed  at  the  Art  Age  Press  of 
Arthur  B.  Turnure,  New  York,  who  has  succeeded  in  making  it,  in 
poi.it  of  paper,  printing,  and  style,  an  ideal-instance  of  the  typog- 
raphy and  bibliopegy  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  contains  63 
full-page  illustrations,  all  of  which  have  been  judiciously  selected 
from  the  most  notable  works  of  the  best  American  artists;  and,  as 
produced  here,  are  intended  to  show  the  facilities  possessed  of 
artistic  illustration  and  the  effectiveness  of  reproductive  methods  in 
the  Art-world. 

ORIGINAL  ETCHINGS 

Of  surpassing  beauty  have  been  contributed  by  the  following  dis 
tinguished  artists,  as  well  as  by  others:  — 

Stephen  Parish,  .7.  C.  Nicoll,  C.  FT.  Ritchie, 

Thomas  Morun,  A.  II.  Bicknell,  William  Hart, 

C.  A.  Platt,  H.  C.  Miller,  J.  A.  S.  Monks, 

Charles  Volkmar,  George  I,.  Brown, 

B.  Lander,  W.  F.  Lansil. 


FULL-PAGE   DRAWINGS 

Appear  by  these,  among  other  well-known  names:  — 


Carroll  Beckwith, 
J{.  i;  u  iiner, 
Thomas  Robinson, 
C.T).  Hunt, 
Bruce  Crane, 
K.  H.  Blashflelfl, 
R.  W.  Van  Boskerck, 
H.  M.  Shurtleff, 

Carl  C^fpnian, 
It.  H.  Burleigh, 
F.  Batchellor, 
W.  A.  Coffin, 
F.  Childe  Hassam, 
F.  M.  Boggs, 
Grauville  Perkins, 

.1.  Wagner, 
C.  W.  Sanderson, 
E.  M.  Parnnenter, 
Leo  Hunter, 
T.  Winthrop  Pien 
Julia  Dabney, 
H.  M.  Knowfton, 
Eleanor  Matlock. 

All  persons  interested  in  the  historical  development,  present 
position,  and  the  prospects  of  the  young  American  Art  School,  will 
fi..d  unusually  instructive  and  opportune  the  series  of  papers  con 
tributed  by  the  ablest  living  specialists  in  knowledge  of  the  theories 
and  practice  of  Art;  which  considered  in  their  entirety  may  bi>  s.iid 
to  constitute  a  literature  on  Modern  Art  and  Modern  Art-tendencies. 

The  quality  and  interest  of  the  text  is  seen  from  a  glance  at  the 

SUBJECTS  AND  CONTRIBUTORS: 

Photography,  Edward  A.  Robinson. 

American  Art  Furniture,  A.  Curtis  Bond. 

The  Growth  of  American  Art,  James  Jackson  Jarves. 

Journalism  and  Art,  M.  G.  Van  Rensselaer. 

Portrait  Paintiny,  Sidney  Dickeuson. 

Native  Painters,  Chnrles'DeKay. 

American  Flower  Painters,  C.  Wheeler. 

Etchings,  S.  It.  Koehler. 

Landscape  Art,  William  Howe  Dnwnes. 

Watercmor  Painting,  Lyman  H.  Weeks. 

American  Wood  Eiii/rai-'in;/,  A r I o  Bates. 

Color  in  Works  of  Art,  R.'Kiordan. 

The  Ideal  in  American  Art,  Florence  Finch. 

American  Art  Journalism,  James  B.  Townsend. 

Success  in  Art,  F.  T.  Lent. 

The  Art  Tariff,  L.  C.  Knight. 

Memorial  Art,  E.  H.  Silsbee. 

Whet  Khali  American  Artists  Paint?   E.  IT.  Clement. 

The  Present  Conditions  of  American  Art,  Arthur  B.  Turnure. 

American  Stained  Glass,  Rdwnrd  Dewson. 

Women  as  Art  Critics,  Lillian  Whiting. 

The  book  has  been  produced  at  the  large  outlay  of  $12,000;  yet  it  is 
offered  to  the"  public  for  the  comparatively  small  sum  of  $3  a  copy.  The 
Publishers  invite  early  and  close  examination  of  the  volume,  confident 
that  it  will  be  found  the  most  considerable  contribution  yet  made  to  the 
Art-literature  of  America,  and  of  inestimable  worth  to  all  who  are 
engaged  in  the  furtherance  of  ajsthetic  culture,  or  in  the  pursuits  of 
Art,  whether  Design,  Painting,  Sculpture,  Decoration,  Photography, 
Cvi.icism,  or  in  any  of  the  various  Art-manufactures  and  Art-ind.isl.rlca 
rapidly  developing  amongst  us. 

The  Publishers  reserve  to  themselves  the  right  of  increasing  the 
price  after  a  certain  number  of  copies  have  been  sold. 

CUPPLES,  UPHAM  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

283  Washington  Street,  BOSTON. 

*»*  Mailed  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  $3.25.  postage  paid. 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA. 


By   FRANCESCA. 


7ITH  A  FINE  PORTRAIT  FRONTISPIECE,   AND   AN   INTRODUCTION 

BY  JOHN   RUSKIN,   D.C.L. 


i  vol.  i6mo.    Gray  cloth  and  gilt.    Price,  75  cts. 


'"PHIS  reprint  of  a  little  book  which  has  been  very  popular  in  England  is  meet- 
ing with  a  warm  welcome  throughout  the  country.  Its  popularity  is  due 
mainly  to  the  beauty  of  the  story,  although  attention  was  called  to  it,  in  the 
first  place,  by  Mr.  Ruskin  in  his  lectures  at  Oxford,  and  in  the  preface  to  the 
book.  The  pseudonym,  "Francesca,"  is  only  a  slight  change  of  the  Christian 
name  of  Miss  Frances  Alexander,  a  lady  artist  of  Boston,  now  living  in  Florence. 
The  great  merit  of  her  paintings  won  her  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Ruskin,  at  whose 
urgent  request  "The  Story  of  Ida "— written  originally  as  a  private  memorial  — 
was  published.  In  his  preface  Mr.  Ruskin  says :  — 

"  Let  it  be  noted  with  thankful  reverence  that  this  is  the  story  of  a  Catholic 
girl,  •written  by  a  Protestant  one,  yet  the  two  of  them  so  united  in  the  truth  of 
Christian  faith,  and  in  the  joy  of  its  love,  that  they  are  absolutely  unconscious 
of  any  difference  in  the  forms  or  letter  of  their  religion." 


" '  _  ne  Story  of  Ida '  is  a  perfect  gem  of  simple,  unadorned  narrative,  and 
the  volume  is  a  dainty  little  specimen  of  the  bookmaker's  art."  —  BUFFALO 
EXPRESS. 

"  The  story  is  very  touching?  —  BOSTON  ADVERTISER. 

"  It  is  tender,  loving,  and  deeply  religious?  —  WORCESTER  SPY. 

"  This  exquisite  little  story,  •with  its  preface  by  John  Ruskin,  depends  for  its 
interest  itpon  a  certain  religious  simplicity  and  refinement  of  thought  and 
manners,  u'/tic/t  will  commend  it  to  those  who  like  the  works  of  Frances 
Havergal  and  Hesba  Stretton? —  BOSTON  COURIER. 

"  The  story  is  beautiful  and  touching  in  its  simplicity,  purity,  and  pathos,  and 
is  absolutely  true  in  every  particular?  —  TROY  TIMES. 


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by  the  publishers, 

CUPPLES,   UPHAM    AND   COMPANY, 

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A    000021  218    3 


